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Tales from the German, comprising specimens from the most celebrated authors

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Title: Tales from the German, comprising specimens from the most celebrated authors

Translator: John Oxenford

Contributor: Wilhelm Hauff
        E. T. A. Hoffmann
        Karl Leberecht Immermann
        Heinrich von Kleist
        Johann Karl August Musäus
        Friedrich Schiller
        C. F. van der Velde

Translator: C. A. Feiling


        
Release date: April 18, 2010 [eBook #32046]
                Most recently updated: March 20, 2022

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/32046

Credits: Al Haines, from scans obtained
        from Internet Archive.


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALES FROM THE GERMAN, COMPRISING SPECIMENS FROM THE MOST CELEBRATED AUTHORS ***




TALES

FROM

THE GERMAN,


COMPRISING

SPECIMENS FROM THE MOST CELEBRATED AUTHORS.


TRANSLATED BY

JOHN OXENFORD AND C. A. FEILING.




LONDON:

CHAPMAN AND HALL, 186, STRAND.

1844.




C. WHITING, BEAUFORT HOUSE, STRAND.




TABLE OF CONTENTS.


  INTRODUCTION
  LIBUSSA.  BY J. H. MUSÆUS.  (J. O.)
  THE CRIMINAL FROM LOST HONOUR.  BY FRIEDRICH SCHILLER.  (J. O.)
  THE COLD HEART.  BY WILHELM HAUFF.  (C. A. F.)
  THE WONDERS IN THE SPESSART.  BY KARL IMMERMANN.  (J. O.)
  NOSE, THE DWARF.  BY W. HAUFF.  (C. A. F.)
  AXEL.  BY C. F. VAN DER VELDE.  (C. A. F.)
  THE SANDMAN.  BY E. T. W. HOFFMANN.  (J. O.)
  MICHAEL KOHLHAAS.  BY HEINRICH VON KLEIST.  (J. O.)
  THE KLAUSENBURG.  BY LUDWIG TIECK.  (C. A. F.)
  THE MOON.  BY JEAN PAUL FRIEDRICH RICHTER.  (J. O.)
  THE ELEMENTARY SPIRIT.  BY E. T. W. HOFFMANN.  (J. O.)
  ST. CECILIA; OR, THE POWER OF MUSIC.  BY H. VON KLEIST.  (J. O.)
  THE NEW PARIS.  BY J. W. GOETHE.  (J.  O.)
  ALI AND GULHYNDI.  BY ADAM OEHLENSCHLAEGER.  (C. A. F.)
  ALAMONTADE.  BY HEINRICH ZSCHOKKE.  (C. A. F.)
  THE JESUITS’ CHURCH IN G----.  BY E. T. W.  HOFFMANN.  (J. O.)
  THE SEVERED HAND.  BY W. HAUFF.  (C. A. F.)




INTRODUCTION.

The object of the translators of the following tales was to present the
English public with a collection, which should combine effectiveness
with variety, and at the same time should contain specimens of the most
celebrated writers of prose fiction whom Germany has produced.  The
names of the authors will, they think, be a sufficient guarantee that
they have not failed in this last respect, and if the reader finds
himself amused or interested by the series, they will have succeeded
entirely.

It will be remembered that the collection is a collection of tales
only, and that it was absolutely necessary, according to the plan of
the book, that these tales should be numerous.  Any thing like a
lengthened novel was therefore excluded, as it would have exceeded the
prescribed limits, or rendered impossible that variety which the
translators considered an essential of their work.  That short tales,
from their very nature, cannot often promote any very high purpose, and
that amusement for a leisure hour is their principal purpose, the
translators are perfectly aware, admitting that their collection,
generally speaking, does not convey that amount of instruction in life
and thought, which might be obtained from more elaborate works, such
as, for example, the _Wilhelm Meister_ of Göthe.  At the same time they
trust that Kleist’s _Michael Kohlhaas_, Zschokke’s _Alamontade_,
Schiller’s _Criminal from Lost Honour_[1] and even Hauff’s fanciful
_Cold Heart_, will be acceptable to those who look for something beyond
mere amusement, and that some readers will be found to appreciate the
psychological truth and profundity of Hoffmann’s tales beneath their
fantastic exterior.

In their versions of the tales the translators have endeavoured, to the
utmost of their power, to be correct, preferring even hardness of
language to liberties with the original text.  The initials in the
table of contents will show who was the translator of each particular
tale; but it must not be supposed that they worked so separately that
the printer and the binder have alone connected the results of their
labours.  Every tale when finished by the translator was carefully
revised by his colleague.  In those instances alone have the
translators deviated from the original, where they found passages and
phrases that they conceived would not accord with English notions of
propriety.  That in such instances they have softened or omitted, needs
no apology.[2]

It has been suggested to the translators that a notice of the authors
and the works themselves might, with advantage, be prefixed to the
collection.  With this suggestion they have complied, trusting that the
limited space allowed will be a sufficient excuse for the very sketchy
nature of the biographies, if indeed the following notices are worthy
of that name.

      *      *      *      *      *

Göthe and Schiller have attained that universal celebrity, that it
would be mere impertinence to say any thing about their lives in a
sketch like this.  Those eminent promoters of German literature in this
country, Mr. T. Carlyle and Sir E. B. Lytton, have done all they could
to make the English public familiar with the life of Schiller, and a
tolerably full notice of his literary progress will be found in No. LX.
of the _Foreign Quarterly Review_.  Those who can read German are
recommended to the elaborate life of Schiller by Dr. Hoffmeister, which
is a perfect treasury of information and criticism.  The materials for
a biography of Göthe lie scattered through a vast quantity or
correspondence, reminiscences, conversations, and characteristics; but
a biography, such as the greatness of the subject requires, is still a
desideratum in German literature.

The _New Paris_, by Göthe, which appears in this collection, is from
that delightful autobiography, to which the poet has given the name of
_Dichtung und Wahrheit_.  The circumstances under which it is told are
sufficiently explained by the short introduction prefixed to it.
Schiller’s _Criminal from Lost Honour_ was written during what is
called the “second period” of his life, when after the completion of
_Don Carlos_ he had quitted dramatic writing for a time, and devoted
himself to the study of philosophy and history.  The facts of the story
he had learned from his friend Abel at an early period.  Hoffmeister’s
remarks on this story may be found interesting.

“This misguided man, Wolf,” says Hoffmeister, “appears as a mournful
sacrifice to the law, which, from this example, should learn mercy.
The severity of law has, from a merely conventional offence, elicited a
grievous crime, and him, who sinned from thoughtlessness, and was
delivered to the care of justice, she has cast off as though he were
absolutely worthless.  The progress in crime, which is gradually forced
upon the man by civil institutions, and his return to virtue, when vice
has completed her lesson, are developed and painted to our eyes with
extraordinary art.  Every action is deduced from thoughts and motives;
and these, again, are deduced from states of mind, which necessarily
result from the reciprocal action which the soul of the man, and the
circumstances by which he was surrounded, had upon each other.
Everywhere do we find natural connexion; not a link in the chain is
wanting.  This psychological novel, like a tragedy, awakens in the
reader not only pity, but terror.  He feels that in the situation of
the unhappy man, he would not have been better himself.  The writer
fulfils his purpose of plucking us down from our proud security.  Man
is just as good or bad, we say to ourselves, as his external situation;
out external situation is the fate of all of us; and we see in the
history of a single individual a sketch of the common lot of man.
Moreover, this history of the ‘criminal’ is so remarkable in point of
style, that one always reads it with fresh interest.  The language is
extremely simple, clear, and natural, and there is not a trace of the
wearisome, constantly occurring breaks, and the affected antitheses
that marked Schiller’s early style.  Every thing shows that the author
moved in a clear, free element.  In some portions he has been eminently
successful; as, for instance, in describing the poacher’s state of
mind, when he is about to point his gun, at his evil genius, Robert.
If, after all our praise, we have one particular to blame, it is this
circumstance, that the weakly and delicate ‘host of the Sun,’ who had
not as yet distinguished himself in the trade of thieving, should have
been unanimously chosen by the robbers for their leader, on his first
entrance into their cave.  Although he was well known to them as a good
poacher, they might yet have reasonable doubts whether he was qualified
to be their captain.”

Before quitting Göthe and Schiller, it is as well to state that Göthe
was born at Frankfort on the Maine, on the 28th of August, 1749, and
died at Weimar on the 22nd of March, 1832; and that Schiller was born
at Marbach, on the Neckar, on the 10th of November, 1759, and died at
Weimar on the 9th of May, 1805.

Johann August Musäus, one of the most popular tale writers of Germany,
was born at Jena, in 1735.  His father was a justice there, and was
soon afterwards removed to Eisenach, by an official appointment.  Young
Musäus was educated by a relation named Weissenborn, who held the
situation of “General Superintendent” at Eisenach, and with whom he
lived from the age of nine to that of nineteen.  He studied theology
for four years at Jena, and it is thought he might have succeeded as a
pastor had not the peasants of Eisenach refused to accept him, because
he had been convicted of the grievous crime of--dancing.  In
consequence of this check to his theological career, he turned his
thoughts to literature, and made his first essay by a parody on
Richardson’s celebrated novel, called _Grandison the Second_, which
first appeared in 1760.  In 1763 he was made Pagenhofmeister (governor
of the pages) at the court of Weimar, and some years afterwards
professor at the Gymnasium of that place.  A considerable period
elapsed before he again appeared as an author, when he satirised
Lavater in a novel called the _Physiognomical Travels_.  This had an
immense success, encouraged by which, he proceeded to collect materials
for his _Popular Tales of the Germans_.  This collection he made in a
singular manner.  Sometimes he would gather round him a crowd of old
women with their spinning-wheels and listen to their gossip, sometimes
he would hear the stories of children from the street.  On one
occasion, his wife, returning from a visit, was surprised, as she
opened the room-door, by a cloud of tobacco smoke, through which she at
last discovered her husband sitting with an old soldier, who was
telling him all sorts of tales.  On the stories collected by him thus
strangely, and afterwards narrated with great humour, though with
occasional vulgarity, the fame of Musäus chiefly depends.  They were
written under the assumed name of Runkel, and were designed, according
to the author’s own statement, to put an end to the taste for
sentimentality.  He began a new series of tales called _Ostrich
Feathers_, of which he only completed one volume.  On the 28th of
October, 1787, he died of a polypus in the heart, and a handsome
monument was erected to him by an unknown hand.  His _Popular Tales_
were, at the request of his widow, re-edited after his death by the
celebrated Wieland, and this is the edition now current.  The story of
_Libussa_, which is taken from the _Popular Tales_ is founded on the
Latin history of Bohemia, by Dubravius, and the work of Æneas Sylvius,
_De Boliemorum gestis et origine_.  The fables which are uttered by the
personages will be found in Dubravius.

The name of Jean Paul Friedrich Richter is almost as well known here as
that of Göthe and Schiller; but the eccentricity of his style, and the
quantity of local allusions with which he abounds, will probably for
ever prevent his works from being extensively read out of Germany.
Jean Paul was born at Wimsiedel, in the Baireuth territory, in the
early part of 1763, and died at Baireuth on the 14th of November, 1825.
He first wrote under the signature of “Jean Paul” only, this he
extended to “J. P. F. Halsus,” and it was to his _Quintus Fixlein_
(1796), that he first affixed his real and entire name.  In 1780 he
went to Leipzig, but this he soon abandoned and resided for some time
at Schwarzbach.  He visited various cities where he was greatly
respected, and received the title of “Legationsrath” from the Duke of
Sachsen-Hildburghausen, with a pension, which was afterwards paid by
the King of Bavaria.  His favourite residence was, however, his native
Baireuth.  A complete edition of his works, which are very numerous,
was published at Berlin in 21 vols., small octavo, in the year 1840,
and another in 4 vols., royal octavo, has been published by Baudry of
Paris.  The short tale of the _Moon_ will give the reader a slight
notion--only a slight one--of Jean Paul’s peculiarities.  It is
prefixed in the original to _Quintus Fixlein_.  An interesting paper on
Jean Paul will be found in Mr. Carlyle’s admirable _Miscellanies_.

The fame of Ludwig Tieck as a writer of romances, and an enthusiastic
admirer of all that belongs to the romantic period of literature, is
almost as great in England as in Germany.  In the history of the
“romantic” school, Tieck takes a most prominent position, being one of
the chief colleagues and most zealous partisans of the brothers
Schlegel.  He was born at Berlin on the 31st of May, 1773, and even at
school displayed his talents for composition by the commencement of his
_Abdallah_.  He studied at Halle, Göttingen, and Erlangen, and read
history and poetry, both ancient and modern, with great assiduity.  In
1796, his novel, _William Lovell_, was published at Berlin.  A journey
from Berlin to Jena made him acquainted with the Schlegels and
Hardenberg (Novalis), and at Weimar he became intimate with Herder.
His satirical dramas of _Blue Beard_ and _Puss in Boots_, displayed an
Aristophanic vein, and his works relating to art, began to attract
general attention.  These were _The Outpourings from the Heart of an
Art-loving Cloister-brother_ (Berlin, 1797), the _Fantasies of Art_
(Hamburg, 1799), and _Franz Sternbald’s Travels_ (Berlin, 1798), in all
of which his friend Wackenrode more or less took a part.  Tieck
cultivated his taste for the fine arts by a residence in Dresden,
Munich, and Rome, and at Jena kept up his acquaintance with Schelling
and the Schlegels.  In the years 1799-1801, he published his
translation of _Don Quixote_, and about the same period several works
of imagination.  In 1801-2 he resided at Dresden, and edited, with A.
W. Schlegel, the _Musenalmanach_.  For the diffusion of a taste for the
middle-age literature of Germany, Tieck made an important contribution
by his publication of a selection of the _Minnelieder_ from the Swabian
period, that is to say, the period of the German emperors during the
dynasty of the Hohenstauffen family, with an elaborate preface, in
which he called the attention of the Germans to their old poetry.  In
1804 appeared his romantic drama of _The Emperor Octavian_, and in 1805
he published, in connexion with T. Schlegel, the works of his deceased
friend Hardenberg (Novalis),[3] which may be classed among the most
extraordinary phenomena of modern literature.  The preface to this
edition is entirely by Tieck.  A long pause now ensued in the midst of
his literary productiveness, during which he visited Rome.  In 1814 and
1816 appeared his _Old English Theatre_, consisting of translations
from our early drama, and in the same year he published the work to
which, more than to any other, he owes his celebrity in this country,
his _Phantasus_.  The entire work has never been translated, but the
tales which are introduced into it, such as the _Blond Eckbert_ and the
_Trusty Eckart_, are generally known.  Another contribution to the
study of the old German literature he made by his edition of Ulrich von
Lichtenstein’s _Frauendienst_ (service of ladies), a kind of romance,
by a celebrated Minnesänger, and a collection of plays under the title
of Old German Theatre.  In 1818 he visited London, where he was
received with great respect, and employed his time in making
collections for the study of Shakspeare, in Schlegel’s translation of
whom he has taken an important part.  Since 1821 he has chiefly been
engaged with a series of novels, which are widely different from his
former manner, and he is now (we believe) resident at Berlin.  The
tales from the _Phantasus_ being already so generally known, one of a
totally different kind has been given in this volume.  The powerful
tale of the _Klausenburg_ is from Tieck’s collected novels.

Heinrich von Kleist, from whom two tales have been taken, is another
poet of the romantic school, and was born at Frankfort on the Oder, in
1777.  He led an unsettled kind of life, residing successively at
Paris, Dresden, and Berlin, and after the battle of Jena, retired from
the latter city to Königsberg, where he devoted himself to literary
pursuits.  Returning to Berlin during the French occupation of Prussia,
he was taken prisoner, and though he was shortly afterwards released,
this imprisonment seems to have had a fatal effect upon a temperament
naturally morbid.  In 1811, at Potsdam, he voluntarily terminated his
own existence, and that of an invalid lady of his acquaintance.  His
works, which are somewhat numerous, consist of dramas and tales, and
are all distinguished by a sort of rugged power.  Of his plays, the
most celebrated is the romantic drama, _Käthchen von Heilbronn_, and of
his tales, the narrative of _Michael Kohlhaas_, contained in this
collection.  A complete edition of his works was published at Berlin,
in 1821, by the indefatigable, Ludwig Tieck.  The critical remarks
which he has made on _Kohlhaas_, may be extracted with profit.

“_Michael Kohlhaas_,” says Tieck, “is unquestionably the most
remarkable of all Kleist’s narratives, and if we see with what firmness
he sketches the various forms, how faithfully the events and feelings
are deduced from each other, with what steadiness the narrator
advances, step by step, we are tempted to believe that this style is
more suitable to the author, and that his talents might have shone
forth more brilliantly here than in the drama.  Here, as in his plays,
we see, as in the form of a law-suit, the misfortune and the guilt of a
remarkable man unfolded before his eyes.  Few writers understand how to
shake our hearts to the very depth, like Kleist, and this is precisely
because he goes to work with so steady a purpose, and consciously
avoids all soft sentimentality.  The insulted and injured Kohlhaas
becomes unhappy;--nay, becomes a criminal through his misery and his
keen sense of justice, until he is called back from his career by the
revered Luther, and by his means obtains a hearing for his suit, so
that he can stand boldly forward.  It is only by chance without any
fault on his own part, that he finds at Dresden, that his position has
grown more unfavourable.  It is unnecessary to call attention to the
masterly hand which has portrayed all the characters from the prince
and Luther, down to the humblest menial, in such living colours, that
we seem to behold the realities themselves.  Whether it was by
intention or unconsciously, the writer has made important deviations
from history.  This might be excused on account of his leading motive,
and the admirable freshness of his colouring; but he is more culpable
for his incorrectness in the necessary circumstances of an event, which
did not happen so very long ago,--circumstances which can scarcely
escape the recollection of the reader.  Kleist forgets that Wittenberg,
not Dresden, was the residence of the Elector of Saxony.  Moreover, he
describes Dresden just according to its present aspect.  The old town,
(Altstadt) scarcely existed at the time, and what shall we say of the
elector himself, who appears as a romantic, amorous, eccentric,
fantastical personage, when certainly it must have been either
Frederick the Wise, or the Steadfast, who belonged to the period of the
narrative?  By over haste--for it certainly was not from design--this
excellent story loses its proper costume and accompanying
circumstances, whereas it would have been far more effective had the
author allowed himself time to place himself in the period with greater
truth.  Another consequence of this deficiency in true locality is,
that the author, after long alluring us by his truth and nature, leads
us through a fanciful visionary world, which will not accord with the
previous one, which he has taught us to know so accurately.  That
wondrous gipsy, who afterwards turns out to be the deceased wife of
Kohlhaas, that mysterious inscription, those ghost-like forms, that
sick, half-mad, and, afterwards, disguised elector; those weak, for the
most part, characterless forms, which, nevertheless, come forward with
a pretension, as if they would be considered superior to the real world
previously described, as if they would sell as dearly as possible that
mysterious nature, which comes to us little as possible,--that horrible
foreboding which the author suddenly feels in the presence of the
creatures of his own fancy--all this, we say, reminds us so forcibly of
many a weak product of our times, and of the ordinary demands of the
reading public, that we are forced, mournfully, to admit that even
distinguished authors, like Kleist--who in other respects does not
participate in these diseases of his day--must pay their tribute to the
time that has produced them.”

No literature can produce a more original writer, than Ernst Theodore
Amadeus Hoffmann, from whom the translators have not scrupled to take
three stories.  Some have called Hoffmann an imitator of Jean Paul, but
the assertion seems to be made rather because both writers are of an
eccentric and irregular character, than because their eccentricities
and irregularities are similar.  However wild may be the subjects of
Hoffmann, and however rambling his method of treating them, his style
is remarkably lucid; and while Jean Paul is one of the most difficult
authors for a foreigner to read, Hoffmann is comparatively easy.  He
was born at Königsberg on the 24th of January, 1776, where he studied
law, and in 1800 became assessor of the government at Posen.  In 1802
he became a councillor of the government at Plock, and in 1803 went in
a similar capacity to Warsaw.  His legal career was terminated by the
invasion of the French, in 1806, and he made use of his musical talents
to obtain a subsistence.  In the autumn of 1808 he accepted the
invitation of Count Julius von Soden to go to a theatre at Bamberg,
where he was appointed musical director.  The theatre soon closed, and
he was reduced to such distress that he was forced to part with his
last coat.  He then occupied himself with musical instruction, and
contributed to the Leipzig _Musikalische Zeitung_.  From 1813 to 1815
he conducted the orchestra of a theatrical company, alternately in
Dresden and Leipzig, and in 1816 was appointed councillor of the royal
_Kammergericht_ in Berlin, where he died on the 24th of July, 1822.
Hoffmann had devoted himself to music from his earliest years, he
composed the music for an opera on the subject of Undine, played at the
Berlin theatre, and many of his writings have an immediate reference to
the feelings and fortunes of the musician.  This is conspicuous in the
collection called, _Fantasia-pieces in Callot’s Manner_, which he
published in 1814, and which was followed by his _Devil’s Elixir_,
published in 1816.  His works, consisting of narratives, are very
numerous, and were published at Berlin, in fifteen volumes, and by
Baudry, of Paris, in one volume, royal octavo.  Among the most
conspicuous are the fantastic _Confessions of Tomcat Murr_, the
collection called the _Scrapions Brothers_, and _Master Flea_.  Many of
Hoffmann’s stories have been translated into English, but they have not
been so successful here as in France, where, when the translations
appeared, they created a complete _furore_.  Of the tales in this
collection, the _Sandman_, and the _Jesuits’ Church_, are from the
“night-pieces,” and the _Elementary Spirit_ is from Hoffmann’s “later
works.”  In all these stories it will be observed that Hoffmann’s
purpose is to point out the ill-effect of a morbid desire after an
imaginary world, and a distaste for realities.  Different as their
adventures are, there is a striking similarity in the characters of
Nathaniel, Victor, and the painter Berthold, and Hoffmann seems to be
exhibiting his own internal nature as the extreme of unhealthiness.
The same tone may be perceived in his other writings, and his obvious
reverence for the prosaic and common-place, as the antithesis to
himself, is remarkable.  The story of the _Sandman_ had its origin in a
discussion which actually took place between La Motte Fouqué and some
friends, at which Hoffmann was present.  Some of the party found fault
with the cold, mechanical deportment of a young lady of their
acquaintance, while La Motte Fouqué zealously defended her.  Here
Hoffmann caught the notion of the automaton Olympia, and the arguments
used by Nathaniel are those that were really employed by La Motte
Fouqué.

A writer of extraordinary fancy and invention, but working for a more
obvious purpose, and producing narratives more related in character to
popular legends, was Wilhelm Hauff, of whom likewise there are three
specimens in this volume.  He was born on the 29th of November, 1809,
at Stuttgard, and in early life showed a great predilection for telling
childish narratives.  Being designed for the theological profession, he
went to the University of Tübingen in 1820.  Afterwards he became a
private teacher at Stuttgard, and began his literary career with the
_Almanach of Tales for the year_ 1826.  This was followed by
_Contributions from Satan’s Memoirs_, and the _Man in the Moon_, the
latter of which was designed to satirise the popular writer Clauren.
Hauff’s historical romance of _Lichtenstein_ acquired great celebrity,
and the collection of tales called the _Caravan_, which have
contributed to this volume, are in the happiest vein.  Hauff needs only
to be known to become popular in any country.  His works, which are
somewhat numerous, although he died before he had completed his
twenty-sixth year (18th of November, 1827), were published in a
complete edition by the poet Gustav Schwab, in 1830.

Adam Oehlenschläger appears as the head of the romantic party in
Denmark, though he is as well known to the Germans as the Danes, having
published his works in both languages.  He was born near Copenhagen, on
the 14th of November, 1779, and passed his youth in the Castle
Friedrichsberg, where his father was castellan.  He began to study law
in 1800, but soon quitted the study, and, at the cost of the
government, travelled through Germany, France, and Italy.  He was then
appointed Professor of “Æsthetics” at the University of Copenhagen,
and, in 1816, took another journey through the countries above-named,
and visited Sweden in 1829, where he was received with enthusiasm, and
was made Doctor of Philosophy by the University of Lund.  The dramatic
tale of _Aladdin_, published at Leipzig in 1808, first made him known
in Germany, and his fame has been maintained by a variety of
narratives, some founded on the legends of his own country; and a
number of dramas, of which his beautiful _Corregio_ is the most
celebrated.  The tale of _Ali and Gulhyndi_, which appears in this
collection, is most striking for its felicitous resemblance of the
Oriental style of fiction.  Oehlenschläger’s entire works were
published at Breslau, in eighteen volumes.

Karl Immermann, who is exceedingly admired by a section of the German
literati, was born at Magdeburg, in 1796, and died at Düsseldorf in
1841.  He was a precocious genius, having composed a drama and a
romance at the early age of sixteen.  Joining the volunteers during the
war with France, he was present during the whole campaign in the
Netherlands, and was in France in 1815.  He became, in 1827, counsellor
of the provincial court (Landgerichtsrath) at Düsseldorf.  At this time
he entertained a notion of forming a national German theatre; but his
scheme proved a failure, notwithstanding he adopted all sorts of
decorative means to ensure success.  His works, which are very
numerous, have been collected, and one of them, a mythical drama,
called _Merlin_, is placed by his admirers, with more enthusiasm than
judgment, by the side of Göthe’s _Faust_.  The tale in this volume is
from his _Munchhausen_, a work of unequal merit, but displaying great
genius and originality.  A very full account of it will be found in the
_Foreign Quarterly Review_, No. LXI.

Franz Karl van der Velde, the author of _Axel_, was a popular author of
historical romances, born at Breslau in 1779.  Passing through a
variety of judicial appointments, he died at Breslau in 1824.  His
works, which were published at Dresden, in 1824, occupy twenty-five
volumes.

Of all the modern writers of Germany, there is none more truly popular
than Johann Heinrich Daniel Zschokke, however doubtful it may be
whether his wonderful popularity be commensurate with his merit.  He
was born at Magdeburg, in 1771; and, after the completion of his
juvenile education, travelled about with a company of strolling
players.  Becoming reconciled with his relations, after this vagabond
life, he went to the University at Frankfort on the Oder, where he
studied in a desultory manner.  After travelling through Germany,
Switzerland, and France, he settled in the Grisons, and took a most
active part in Swiss politics, to follow which would exceed the bounds
of a sketch of this sort.  His _History of Switzerland_ is a standard
work; and his collection of tales, copious as it is, forms a vast
treasury of fiction for his admirers.  The account which Zschokke
himself gives of his _Alamontade_, is added to that tale.[4]

      *      *      *      *      *

Here closes this imperfect sketch.  It is not intended to convey any
new information to those who are acquainted with German literature; but
it may, at least, be of use in conveying a few facts and dates to the
general English reader.


[1] The fact that Schiller’s “Ghost Seer” is so familiar in an English
garb, that it is almost an English novel, is a sufficient reason that
it does not appear in this collection.  Almost the same may be said of
the more celebrated romance of La Motte Fouqué.

[2] This has been especially the case with “Libussa,” which is often
indelicate in the original.  An oversight in the translation of that
tale should, however, be corrected.  The provincial word, “Imme,”
should be translated “Queen-bee,” not “ant.”  Vide p. 14, line 5 from
the bottom.

[3] An admirable paper on Novalis is in Mr. Carlyle’s _Miscellanies_.

[4] To Zschokke is attributed the religious work _Stunden der Andacht_,
a judicious selection from which has been translated by Mr. Haas.




TALES FROM THE GERMAN.


LIBUSSA.

BY J. H. MUSÆUS.

Deep in the Bohemian forest, of which now only a shadow remains, dwelt
years ago, when it spread itself far and wide into the country, a
little spiritual people, aeriel, uncorporeal, and shunning the light.
They were of a finer nature than mankind, which is formed out of gross
clay, and were therefore imperceptible to the coarser sense; but to the
more refined they were half visible by moonlight, being well known to
the poets under the name of the Dryads, and to the old bards under the
name of the Elves.  From time immemorial they had lived undisturbed
here, until the forest suddenly resounded with the tumult of war; Duke
Czech, of Hungary, crossed the mountains with his Slavonic hordes, to
seek a new dwelling-place in this spot.  The beautiful inhabitants of
the aged oaks, of rocks, caves and grottoes, as well as those of the
reeds in ponds and marshes fled from the noise of weapons, and the
snorting of war-horses.  Even for the mighty Erl-king the tumult was
too much, and he removed his court to the more remote deserts.  One elf
alone could not resolve to quit her beloved oak, and when the wood was
hewn down in every direction to make the land arable, she alone had the
courage to defend her tree against the power of the new comers, and
chose its lofty top for her abode.

Among the courtiers of the duke was a young squire, named Crocus, full
of courage and youthful fire, active, well made, and of noble stature.
To him was entrusted the care of his master’s horses, which he
sometimes drove out to feed in the forest.  Often he rested under the
oak which the elf inhabited; she regarded the stranger with pleasure,
and when at night he slumbered by the root, she whispered pleasant
dreams into his ear, predicted to him in significant images the events
of the coming day; or if one of his horses had strayed in the
wilderness, and the keeper had lost all traces of him, and went to
sleep with heavy heart, he saw in his dream the marks of the concealed
path which led to the spot where the stray horse was feeding.

The farther the new settlers spread the nearer did they approach the
dwelling of the elf, who by means of her faculty of divination foresaw
how soon the axe threatened her tree of life, and therefore resolved to
communicate her trouble to her friend.  One moonlight summer’s evening
Crocus drove his herd later than usual into the fence, and hastened to
his usual couch beneath the tall oak.  His road wound about a lake well
stored with fish, in the silver waves of which the golden crescent was
reflected in the shape of a glittering cone.  Straight over this
shining part of the lake, on the opposite shore, he perceived in the
vicinity of the oak a female form, that seemed to be walking on the
cool bank.  This apparition surprised the young warrior.  “Whence,” he
thought to himself, “could this maiden come, so solitary in these
deserts, at the time of evening twilight?”  But the adventure was of
such a nature, that to a young man it was more alluring than alarming
to search into the affair.  He doubled his pace without losing sight of
the form which occupied his attention, and soon reached the place where
he had first perceived her, under the oak.  It now seemed to him as if
what he saw was more of a shadow than a reality.  He stood astounded,
and a cold shuddering came over him; but he heard a soft voice, which
whispered to him these words: “Come hither, dear stranger, and be not
afraid; I am no deceptive form, no delusive shadow; I am the elf of
this grove, the dweller in the oak, under the thick-leaved boughs of
which thou hast often slumbered; I lulled thee to sweet delightful
repose, foretold to thee what would befall thee, and if a mare or a
colt of thy herd had strayed, I told thee of the place where it was to
be found.  Repay this favour by another service which I require of
thee.  Be the protector of this tree, which has so often protected thee
against sun and rain, and prevent the murderous axe of thy brothers,
who are destroying the woods, from injuring this venerable trunk.”

The young warrior, whose courage revived at this soft discourse,
answered thus: “Goddess or mortal, whichever thou art, ask of me
whatever thou pleasest, and if I can I will accomplish it.  But I am
only a humble man among my people, the servant of my lord the duke.  If
he says to me to-day or to-morrow, ‘feed your horses here, feed them
there,’ how shall I be able to protect thy tree in this remote wood?
But if thou commandest it I will leave the service of my prince, dwell
in the shadow of thine oak, and protect it as long as my life lasts.”
“Do so,” said the elf, “and thou wilt not repent of it.”  Upon this she
vanished, and there was a rustling in the tree above, as if some loud
evening breeze had caught itself there, and was moving the leaves.
Crocus stood for awhile quite enchanted at the heavenly apparition
which had appeared to him.  Such a delicate, truly feminine creature,
of such a slender form, and of such noble appearance he had never seen
among the stunted Slavonic girls.  At last he stretched him upon the
soft moss, although sleep did not close his eyes; morning twilight
surprised him in a tumult of delicious sensations, which were to him as
strange and novel as the first beam of light to the newly opened eyes
of one who has been born blind.  At the break of day he hastened to the
duke’s palace, asked for his dismissal, packed up his baggage, and
hastily started with his head filled with glowing fantasies and his
burden on his back, for his delightful retreat in the forest.

During his absence, however, an artificer among the people, by trade a
miller, had pitched upon the sound straight trunk of the oak as an axle
for his mill-wheel, and went with his men to fell it.  The trembling
elf sighed when the greedy saw began with its iron teeth to gnaw the
foundations of her dwelling.  From the top of the tree she looked
anxiously around for her faithful protector; but her glance was unable
to discover him anywhere, and her consternation rendered the gift of
prophecy peculiar to her race so ineffective, that she no more ventured
to decipher her impending fate than the sons of Esculapius with their
boasted “prognosis” are able to tell when death will knock at their own
doors.

However Crocus was on his way, and so near the scene of this mournful
catastrophe, that the noise of the creaking saw reached his ears.  He
augured no good from this noise in the forest, and setting wings to his
feet beheld--horrible sight--the impending destruction of the tree he
had taken under his protection in his very presence.  Like a madman he
flew upon the workmen with his spear and drawn sword, and frightened
them from their work; for they thought that a mountain demon was in
their presence and fled in great confusion.  Fortunately the tree’s
wound was curable, and in a few summers the scar had disappeared.

In the hours of rest in the evening, after the new-comer had selected a
spot for his future dwelling, had marked out the space to be hedged in
for a little garden, and had again considered in his mind the whole
plan of the hermitage in which he designed to pass his days, far
removed from human society, in the service of a shadowy friend, who
seemed to be totally unreal, the elf appeared to him on the banks of
the lake, and with graceful gestures thus accosted him: “Thanks, dear
stranger, that thou hast prevented the strong arms of thy brethren from
felling this tree, to which my life is attached; for know that mother
nature, who has endowed my race with such various powers and faculties,
has nevertheless united our life to the growth and duration of the
oaks.  Through us does the queen of the forest raise her venerable head
above the rabble of other trees and shrubs; we promote the circulation
of the sap through trunk and branches, so that she gains strength to
combat with the whirlwind, and to defy for centuries the destroying
power of time.  On the other hand, our life is knit to hers.  When the
oak, to whom fate has assigned us as a partner, grows old, we grow old
with it, and when it dies, we die away also, and sleep like mortals, a
sleep of death, until by the eternal revolution of all things, chance
or some secret arrangement of nature unites our being to a new germ,
which opened by our vivifying power, sprouts up after a long time to a
mighty tree, and affords us the joys of life anew.  From this thou
mayst perceive what a service thou hast rendered me by thy assistance,
and what gratitude is due to thee.  Require of me the reward of thy
noble act, reveal to me the desire of thy heart, and it shall be
fulfilled at once.”

Crocus was silent.  The sight of the charming elf had made upon him
more impression than her discourse, of which he understood but little.
She perceived his confusion, and to extricate him from it took a dry
reed from the bank of the lake, broke it into three pieces, and said:
“Choose one of these three, or take one without choice.  In the first
is fame and honour, in the second are riches and wise use of them, and
in the third happy love is contained for thee.”  The young man cast his
eyes to the ground and answered: “Daughter of Heaven, if thou intendest
to grant the wish of my heart, know that it is not contained in the
three reeds which thou offerest; my heart seeks a still greater reward.
What is honour but the fuel of pride, what are riches but the root of
avarice, and what is love but the trap of passion, to ensnare the noble
liberty of the heart?  Grant me my desire of resting beneath the shadow
of thy oak, from the fatigue of the campaign, and of hearing from thy
sweet mouth doctrines of wisdom, that thus I may decipher the future.”
“Thy wish,” replied the elf, “is great, but what thou deservest at my
hands is not less, and therefore let it be as thou hast requested.  The
bandage before thy corporeal eyes shall vanish, that thou mayst behold
the secrets of hidden wisdom.  With the enjoyment of the fruit take
also the shell, for the wise man is also held in honour.  He alone is
rich, for he desires no more than he actually needs, and he tastes the
nectar of love without poisoning it with impure lips.”  When she had
said this she again presented him the three pieces of reed, and
vanished.

The young hermit prepared his bed of moss under the oak, highly
delighted at the reception which the elf had accorded him.  Sleep
overcame him like an armed man, cheerful morning dreams danced round
his head, and nourished his fancy with the fragrance of happy
anticipations.  As soon as he woke he joyously began his day’s work,
built himself a commodious hut, dug his garden, and planted roses and
lilies, and other sweetly-smelling flowers and vegetables, not without
cabbages and kitchen herbs, besides an assortment of fruit-trees.  The
elf did not fail to pay him a visit in the twilight of every evening,
took pleasure in the produce of his industry, walked with him hand in
hand along the reedy bank of the pond, until the waving reed murmured
forth a melodious evening greeting to the friendly pair, when the
breeze rustled through it.  The elf initiated her docile pupil into the
secrets of nature, instructed him in the origin and issue of things,
taught him their natural and magical qualities and virtues, and formed
the rough warrior to a thinker and a philosopher.

In the same degree as the feelings and senses of the young man became
more refined by his intercourse with the fair shadow, the tender form
of the elf became denser, and acquired more consistency.  Her bosom was
filled with animation and life, fire glistened from her hazel eyes, and
with the form of a young girl, she seemed also to have acquired the
feelings of one.  In a few months the sighing Crocus was blessed with
the happiness which the third reed had promised him, and did not regret
that the freedom of his heart was ensnared by the trap of love.
Although the marriage of the tender pair took place without witnesses,
it was productive of as much happiness as the most obstreperous
nuptials, and in due time pledges of conjugal affection were not
wanting.  The elf presented her husband with three daughters at one
birth, and the delighted father, in the first embrace, called her who
had cried in his house before the two others, Bela; the next Therba,
and the youngest Libussa.  All were like genii in the beauty of their
form; and although they did not consist of such a delicate material as
their mother, their corporeal nature was finer than the coarse earthy
form of their father.  They were also free from all the infirmities of
children, and needed no leading strings, for, after the first nine
days, they all ran like so many partridges.  As they grew up, they
displayed all their mother’s talent for detecting hidden things, and
predicting the future.

With the aid of time, Crocus also acquired much knowledge of these
mysteries.  When the wolf had dispersed the cattle in the wood, and the
shepherds searched about for their lost sheep and oxen; when the
woodmen missed an adze or a hatchet, they sought advice from the wise
Crocus, who told them where to find what they had lost.  If a bad
neighbour made away with any of the common property, broke at
night-time into the fold or dwelling of another, robbed him, or
murdered his host, and no one could guess who was the criminal, the
wise Crocus was always sought for counsel.  He then summoned the
community to a grass-plot, made them form a circle, stepped into the
midst of it, and let the infallible sieve turn, which invariably
pointed out the malefactor.  His fame was thus spread over all the land
of Bohemia, and whoever had an affair or any business of importance,
consulted the wise man as to its issue.  Nay, cripples and sick persons
sought from him aid and recovery; even diseased cattle were brought to
him, and he knew how to cure ailing cows with his shadow, as well as
the renowned St. Martin, of Schierbach.  The concourse of people that
sought him increased every day, just as if the tripod of the Delphic
Apollo had been removed to the Bohemian forest; and although Crocus,
without gain and reward, gave his information to those that questioned
him, and healed the sick and crippled, the treasure of his mysterious
wisdom proved very productive, and brought him great profit; for the
people pressed to him with their gifts, and quite overwhelmed him with
the proofs of their good-will.  He first revealed the secret of washing
gold out of the sand of the Elbe, and received a tenth from all who
collected the gold sand.  Thus his means and his wealth were increased;
he built strong castles and palaces, he kept large herds of cattle, he
possessed fertile lands, woods, and fields, and imperceptibly found
himself in the possession of all the wealth which the liberal elf had
prophetically enclosed for him, in the second piece of reed.

One fine summer evening, when Crocus, with his attendants, was
returning from an excursion, where he had settled the boundary disputes
of two neighbouring congregations at their request, he perceived his
wife on the brink of the pond, where she had first appeared to him.
She beckoned to him with her hand, so he dismissed his retinue, and
hastened to embrace her.  As usual, she received him with tender love,
but her heart was oppressed and mournful, while from her eyes trickled
ethereal tears, so fair and transient, that they were hastily absorbed
by the air, without reaching the earth.  Crocus was astonished at the
sight, for he had never seen the eyes of his wife look otherwise than
cheerful, and with all the brilliancy of youthful joy.  “What ails
thee, beloved of my heart?” said he; “my soul is torn by uneasy
forebodings.  Tell me, what is the meaning of these tears?”  The elf
sighed, leaned her head mournfully on his shoulder, and said: “Dear
husband, in thine absence I have read in the book of fate, that an
unhappy destiny threatens my tree of life; I must leave thee for ever.
Follow me to the castle, that I may bless my children, for from this
day you will never see me again.”  “Oh, my beloved,” replied Crocus,
“banish these melancholy thoughts!  What misfortune can threaten thy
tree?  Are not its roots and trunk firmly fixed?  Look at its healthy
branches, as, laden with fruit and leaves, they extend themselves, and
see how it raises its top to the clouds.  As long as this arm moves, it
shall defend itself against every impious man who shall dare to injure
its trunk.”--“Weak is the protection,” replied she, “which a mortal arm
can afford!  Ants can only contend with ants, gnats only with gnats,
and all the worms of the earth can merely guard off their like.  What
can the strongest of you do against the operations of nature, or the
inscrutable decrees of fate?  The kings of the earth can easily
overthrow the little mounds which you call your fortresses and castles,
but the slightest breeze scorns their power, rustles when its pleases,
and heeds not their command.  Thou hast already defended this oak
against the might of man, but canst thou also resist the whirlwind,
when it arises to strip the leaves from its boughs; or if a concealed
worm gnawed at its core, could you draw it forth and crush it?”

Discoursing thus, the affectionate pair entered the castle.  The
slender maidens sprang joyfully towards them, as they were accustomed
to do on their mother’s evening visits, gave an account of their daily
occupation, brought their embroidery and needle-work as a proof of
their industry and skill; but, on this occasion, the hour of domestic
happiness was totally joyless.  The girls soon perceived that the
traces of deep sorrow were imprinted on their father’s face, and saw
with sympathising grief their mother’s tears, without venturing to
inquire into the cause.  Their mother gave them many wise instructions
and good admonitions; but her discourse was like the song of a swan, as
if she were about to take leave of the world.  She remained with her
beloved family till the morning-star arose; she then embraced her
husband and children with melancholy tenderness, retired to her tree as
usual, at day-break, through a secret door, and left them all to the
most melancholy forebodings.

Nature was in breathless silence as the sun rose; but his beaming head
was soon obscured by dark heavy clouds.  It was a sultry day; the whole
atmosphere was electrical.  Distant thunders rolled along over the
wood, and echo, with a hundred voices, repeated the fearful sound in
the winding valleys.  At noon, a forked flash of lightning darted down
upon the oak, and shattered root and branches in one moment, with
resistless force, so that the fragments lay scattered far and wide in
the forest.  When this was told to Crocus, he rent his clothes, and
went out with his daughters to mourn over his wife’s tree of life, and
to collect and preserve the splinters as precious relics.  The elf was
no more to be seen from that day.

After some years, the tender girls grew up, their virgin form bloomed
as a rose starting from the bud, and the fame of their beauty was
spread all over the country.  The noblest youths among the people came
forward, and had all sorts of petitions to lay before Father Crocus,
and ask his advice.  In truth this was but a pretext, that they might
ogle the lovely girls, as young fellows often feign some business with
the fathers, if they wish to coax the daughters.  The three daughters
lived together in great ease and concord, little aware of their own
talents.  The gift of prophecy was possessed by them all in equal
degree, and their discourses were oracles without their knowing it.
Soon, however, their vanity was excited by the voice of flattery, the
word-catchers snapped up every sound from their lips, the Seladons
interpreted every gesture, traced the slightest smile, watched the
glance of their eyes, drawing from them indications more or less
favourable, fancied they would thence gather their destinies, and from
that time it has been the custom among lovers to question the good or
bad star of love in the horoscope of the eyes.  Scarcely had vanity
insinuated itself into the virgin heart, than pride was at the door
with all the rabble of his train,--self-love, self-praise, obstinacy,
selfishness, and all these stole in together.  The elder sisters vied
with each other, to excel the younger in her arts, and secretly envied
her on account of her superior charms, for although all were very
beautiful, Libussa was the most beautiful of them all.  The Lady Bela
particularly devoted herself to the study of herbs, as Lady Medea did
in the days of old.  She knew their hidden virtues, and how to extract
from them efficacious poisons and antidotes, as well as to prepare from
them scents, pleasant and unpleasant, for the invincible powers.  When
her censer smoked, she charmed down the spirits from the immeasurable
space of ether on the other side of the moon, and they became subject
to her, that with their fine organs they might inhale these sweet
perfumes, but when she flung the offensive scent into the censer, she
would have forced the Zihim and Ohim out of the desert.

The Lady Therba was as ingenious as Circe in contriving magic spells of
all sorts, which had force enough to sway the elements, to raise storms
and whirlwinds, hail and tempest, to shake the very bowels of the
earth, or to lift it out of its very hinges.  She made use of these
arts to terrify the people, that she might be honoured and feared as a
goddess, and knew better how to accommodate the weather to the wishes
and caprices of mankind, than wise nature herself.  Two brothers
quarrelled because they never could agree in their wishes.  One was a
husbandman, who always wished for rain that his seed might thrive.  The
other was a potter, who always wished for sunshine, that he might dry
his earthen pots, which were destroyed by the rain.  Because the
heavens never would satisfy them, they went one day with rich presents
to the house of the wise Crocus, and told their wishes to Therba.  The
elf’s daughter smiled at the boisterous complaints of the brothers
against the beneficent arrangements of nature, and satisfied the wishes
of both, letting rain fall on the seed of the agriculturist, and
sunshine on the field of the potter.  By their magic arts the two
sisters acquired great fame and vast wealth, for they never
communicated their gifts without reward; they built castles and villas
out of their treasures; they laid out fine pleasure gardens; they were
never weary of feasting and merry-making, and they jilted the suitors
who sought their love.

Libussa had not the proud vain disposition of her sisters.  Although
she possessed the same faculty of penetrating into the secrets of
nature and using her hidden virtues, she was satisfied with the share
of miraculous power she had inherited from her mother without carrying
it further, that she might make a profit of it.  Her vanity did not go
beyond the consciousness of her own beauty; she did not thirst after
riches, and she did not, like her sisters, wish either to be feared or
honoured.  When these kept up a constant bustle in their villas,
hurried from one exciting pleasure to another, and attached the flower
of the Bohemian knighthood to their triumphal car, she remained at home
in her father’s dwelling, managed the household affairs, gave council
to those who asked for it, kindly assisted the oppressed and
distressed,--and all from mere good will without any reward.  Her
disposition was gentle and modest, her life chaste and virtuous such as
became a noble maiden.  She was, to be sure, secretly pleased at the
victories which her beauty gained over the hearts of men, and she
received the sighs and cooing of pining adorers, as a fitting tribute
to her charms, but no one dared breathe to her a word of love, or
presume to solicit her heart.  Yet the wag Cupid loves better than any
thing to exercise his rights with the coy, and will often throw his
burning torch on a low straw-thatched shed when he intends to fire a
lofty palace.

An old knight, who had come into the land with an army of the
Czechites, had settled deep in the forest.  He had made the wilderness
arable, and had laid out an estate, on which he intended to pass the
remainder of his days in peace, living on the produce of his fields.
However a powerful neighbour took possession of the property, and drove
out the knight, whom a hospitable countryman took in, giving him a
shelter in his own dwelling.  The poor old man had a son, who was the
only prop and consolation of his age--a fine youth, who however
possessed nothing but a hunting spear, and a well practised fist to
support his father.  The plunder by the unjust Nabal excited his
revenge, and he armed himself to repel force with force.  The command
of the careful old man, who did not wish to expose the life of his son
to any danger, disarmed the noble youth, but afterwards he was
determined not to relinquish his original design.  So his father called
him, and said, “Go, my son, to the wise Crocus, or to the wise virgins
his daughters, and ask them whether the gods approve of thine
enterprise, and will grant a favourable issue to it.  If so, thou mayst
gird on thy sword, take thy spear in thy hand, and fight for thy
patrimony.  If not, remain here till thou hast closed mine eyes, and
then do as seems right to thee.”

The youth set out and first reached the palace of Bela, which had the
appearance of a temple, inhabited by a goddess.  He knocked and desired
to be admitted, but the porter, as soon as he saw that the stranger
appeared with empty hands, dismissed him as a beggar, and closed the
door in his face.  He proceeded sorrowfully, and came to the dwelling
of Therba, where he knocked and desired a hearing.  The porter peeped
out of the window, and said, “If thou bearest gold in thy pocket so
that thou canst weigh it out to my mistress, she will give thee one of
her wise sayings that will tell thee thy fate.  If not, go and gather
on the shore of the Elbe as much of it as the tree has leaves, the
sheaf has ears, and the bird has feathers, and then I will open this
door for thee.”  The youth thus again deceived, departed quite out of
heart, especially when he learned that the prophet Crocus had gone to
Poland, to officiate as umpire between some Magnates, who could not
agree together.  He expected no better reception from the third sister,
and when he saw her paternal forest-castle from a hill in the distance,
he did not venture to approach it, but concealed himself in a thick
bush to brood over his grief.  He was soon roused from his gloomy
reflections by a noise like the tramp of horses’ feet.  A flying roe
darted through the bushes followed by a beautiful huntress and her
attendants, all mounted on magnificent steeds.  She hurled a javelin
which whizzed through the air without reaching the animal.  The youth
who watched the scene, at once caught up his cross-bow, and from the
twanging string sent forth a winged arrow which darted at once through
the heart of the beast, so that it fell down on the spot.  The lady,
surprised at this unexpected phenomena, looked round for the unknown
hunter, which, when the marksman perceived, he stepped forward and
bowed humbly to the ground.  The Lady Libussa thought she had never
seen a handsomer man.  At the very first glance his frame made upon her
so strong an impression that she could not help being involuntarily
prepossessed in his favour, and confessing he was of a noble figure.
“Tell me, dear stranger,” said she, “who are thou, and what chance has
conducted thee to these precincts?”  The youth rightly surmised that
his good fortune had allowed him to find what he sought, so he modestly
communicated his wishes, not forgetting to say, how uncivilly he had
been dismissed from the doors of her sisters, and how much he had been
afflicted in consequence.  She cheered his mind with kind words.
“Follow me to my dwelling,” said she, “I will question for thee the
book of fate, and to-morrow at sunrise I will give thee information.”

The youth obeyed her orders: here there was no churlish porter to
prevent his entrance into the palace; here the lovely resident
exercised the law of hospitality most liberally towards him.  He was
delighted with this favourable reception, but still more so with the
charms of his fair hostess.  The enchanting form flitted before his
eyes all night, and he carefully guarded against the approach of sleep,
that the events of the past day which he reflected on with delight
might not leave his thoughts for a single moment.  The Lady Libussa on
the other hand, enjoyed a gentle slumber, for retirement from the
impressions of the outward senses, which disturb the fine anticipations
of the future, is indispensable to the gift of prophecy.  Nevertheless
the glowing fancy of the elf’s sleeping daughter united the form of the
young stranger to all the visionary forms that appeared to her in the
night.  She found him where she did not seek him, and under such
circumstances that she could not understand how she should have any
relation to this stranger.  When the fair prophetess, on waking early
in the morning, endeavoured as usual to separate and unravel the
visions of the night, she was disposed to reject them altogether as
illusions that had sprung from an aberration of fancy, and to give them
no more attention.  But a dark feeling told her that the creation of
her fancy was not a mere empty dream, but that it pointed to certain
events, which the future would unfold, and that this same prophetic
fancy, had in the night just passed, overheard the secret counsels of
destiny better than ever, and had blabbed them out to her.  In the same
way, she found that the guest now under her roof was violently inflamed
with ardent love, and her heart quite as unreservedly made her the same
confession with respect to him; but she set the seal of secrecy upon
the information, while the modest youth, on his side, had vowed that he
would impose silence on his tongue and on his eyes, that he might not
expose himself to contemptuous refusal: for the barrier which fortune
had set up between him and the daughter of Crocus seemed to him
insurmountable.

Although the fair Libussa knew perfectly well what answer to give to
the young man’s question, she felt it very difficult to allow him to
depart so quickly.  At sunrise she appointed a meeting with him in the
garden and said: “The veil of darkness still hangs before my eyes; to
know thy destiny wait till sunset.”  In the evening she said: “Wait
till sunrise:” on the following morning “Wait throughout this day,” and
on the third, “Have patience till to-morrow.”  At last, on the fourth
day, she dismissed him, because she had no pretext for detaining him
any longer, without discovering her secret, and with kind words she
gave him this information: “It is not the will of the gods that thou
shouldst contend with a mighty one in the land; endurance is the lot of
the weaker.  Go to thy father: be the consolation of his age, and
support him with the labour of thy industrious hand.  Take from my herd
two white bulls as a present, and take this rod to guide them.  When it
blooms and bears fruit the spirit of prophecy will rest upon thee.”
The youth considered himself unworthy of the lovely maiden’s presents,
and blushed to accept a gift without being able to return it.  With
lips void of eloquence, but with a demeanour so much the more eloquent,
he took a sorrowful farewell, and found tied up by the gate a couple of
white bulls, as plump and shining as the divine bull of old, upon whose
sleek back the virgin Europa swam through the blue waves.  Joyfully he
unloosened them, and drove them gently along.  The road here seemed but
a few yards in length, so completely was his soul occupied with the
thoughts of the fair Libussa, and as he felt he never could share her
love, he vowed he would, at any rate, never love another as long as he
lived.  The old knight was delighted at his son’s return, and still
more delighted when he learned that the advice of the wise Crocus’s
daughter so perfectly accorded with his own wishes.  The youth being
destined by the gods to follow the calling of a husbandman, did not
delay to yoke his white bulls to the plough.  The first attempt
succeeded according to his wishes; the bulls were so strong and so
spirited, that in one day they turned up more land than twelve oxen
would commonly have managed.

Duke Czech, who had conducted the first expedition of his people into
Bohemia, had died long ago, and his descendants inherited neither his
dignity nor his principality.  The Magnates, to be sure, assembled
after his decease, to make a new election, but their savage, stormy
temperaments did not allow them to come to any rational decision.
Selfishness and arrogance turned the first state assembly of Bohemia
into a Polish diet;[1] too many hands seized the princely mantle at
once, so they tore it to pieces, and it belonged to nobody.  The
government fell into a kind of anarchy; every one did as he pleased;
the strong oppressed the weak, the rich the poor, the great the little.
There was no longer any general security in the country, and
nevertheless these mad caps thought their new republic was admirably
constituted.  “All” they cried “is in order; every thing goes its way
with us as everywhere else; the wolf eats the lamb, the kite eats the
pigeon, and the fox eats the fowl.”  However, this mad constitution had
no stability; and after the intoxication of visionary freedom was
dissipated, and the people had again become sober, reason once more
asserted her rights, and the patriots, the honest citizens, and all in
fact in the country, who had any love for their father-land, took
counsel to destroy the present idol, the many-headed hydra, and to
unite the people again under a sovereign.  “Let us,” they said, “choose
a prince who shall rule over us, according to the custom of our
fathers, who shall curb licentiousness, and administer justice and the
laws.  Not the strongest, the bravest, nor the richest, but the wisest
shall be our duke!”  The people being weary of the oppressions of the
petty tyrants, were on this occasion unanimous, and answered the
proposition with loud applause.  A general assembly was appointed, and
the choice of all fell upon the wise Crocus.  A deputation was sent to
invite him to take possession of his dignity, and although he was not
covetous of the distinguished honour, he did not delay to accord with
the wishes of the people.  He was dressed in the purple, and he
proceeded with great pomp to Vizegrad, the princely residence, where
the people met him with loud rejoicings, and swore allegiance to him as
their sovereign.  He now perceived that even the third slip of reed
offered him by the liberal elf had bestowed its gift upon him.

His love of equity and his wise legislation extended his fame over all
the countries round.  The Sarmatian princes, who used incessantly to
quarrel, brought their disputes from a great distance to his tribunal.
He weighed, with the infallible weight and measure of natural equity,
in the scales of justice, and when he opened his mouth, it was as if
the venerable Solon or the wise Solomon, between the twelve lions from
his throne, gave judgment.  Once, when some rebels had conspired
against the peace of their country, and had set all the excitable
nation of Poles by the ears, he marched to Poland at the head of his
army, and suppressed the civil war.  There likewise was he made duke by
a great part of the people, out of gratitude for the peace which he had
given them.  He built there the city of Cracow, which still bears his
name, and has the right of crowning the Polish king to the present day.
Crocus reigned with great glory to the termination of his life.  When
he perceived that his end was approaching, and that he should now leave
this world, he ordered to be made of the remains of the oak, which his
wife the elf had inhabited, a box to contain his bones.  He then
departed in peace, wept over by his three daughters, who laid him in
the box, and buried him as he had commanded, while the whole country
mourned his loss.

As soon as the funeral pomp had ended, the states assembled to consider
who should now occupy the vacant throne.  The people were unanimous for
a daughter of Crocus, only they could not agree which of the three
sisters should be chosen.  The Lady Bela had the fewest adherents, for
her heart was not good, and she often used her magic lantern to make
mischief.  Nevertheless she had inspired the people with such fear,
that no one ventured to object to her for fear of rousing her
vengeance.  When it came to the vote, all the electors were silent,
there was no voice for her and none against her.  At sunset the
representatives broke up the meeting, and deferred the election to the
following day.  Then the Lady Therba was proposed, but confidence in
her own magic spells had turned her head, she was proud, supercilious,
and wished to be viewed as a goddess; and if incense was not always
offered to her, she was peevish, wilful and ill-tempered, displaying
all those qualities which deprive the fair sex of their flattering
epithet.  She was not so much feared as her elder sister, but then she
was not more beloved.  For this reason the place of election was as
still as a funeral feast, and there was no voting.  On the third day
the Lady Libussa was proposed.  As soon as this name was uttered, a
familiar whispering was heard throughout the circle, the solemn faces
became unwrinkled and brightened up, and every one of the electors
could communicate to his neighbour some good quality of the lady.  One
lauded her unassuming demeanour, another her modesty, the third her
wisdom, the fourth the infallibility of her predictions, the fifth her
disinterested conduct to all who asked counsel, the tenth her chastity,
ninety others her beauty, and the last her thriftiness.  When a lover
sketches such a list of his mistress’s perfections, it is always a
matter of doubt whether she really possesses one of them, but the
public in its decisions does not easily err on the favourable side,
though it often does on the unfavourable one.  By reason of qualities
so laudable, and so universally recognised, the Lady Libussa was
certainly the most powerful candidate for the throne, as far as the
hearts of the electors were concerned; nevertheless the preference of
the younger sisters to the elder one has so often, as experience
testifies, disturbed domestic peace, that it was to be feared, in a
more important affair, the peace of the country would be interrupted.
This consideration put the wise guardians of the people to such great
embarrassment, that they could not come to any decision at all.  An
orator was wanted who should attach the weight of his eloquence to the
good will of the electors, if the affair was to make any progress, and
the good wishes of the electors were to have any effect.  Such an
orator appeared as if called for.

Wladomir, one of the Bohemian magnates, next in rank to the duke, had
long sighed for the charming Libussa, and had solicited her hand in the
lifetime of her father, Crocus.  He was one of his most faithful
vassals, and was beloved by him as a son, and therefore had the good
father wished that love might unite the pair together.  The coy mind of
the maiden was, however, invincible, and he would on no account force
her affections.  Prince Wladomir did not allow himself to be scared by
this doubtful aspect of affairs, and fancied that by fidelity and
perseverance he might bear up against the lady’s hard disposition, and
render it pliable by tenderness.  He had attached himself to the duke’s
train, as long as he lived, without advancing one step nearer to the
goal of his wishes.  Now he thought he had found an opportunity of
opening her closed heart, by a meritorious act, and of gaining, from
magnanimous gratitude, what, it seemed, he could not obtain by love.
He ventured to expose himself to the hatred and revenge of the two
dreaded sisters, and to raise his beloved to the throne at the peril of
his life.  Marking the wavering irresolution of the assembly, he took
up the discourse and said: “Brave knights and nobles of the people, I
will lay a simile before you, from which you may learn how to complete
this election to the advantage of your father-land.”  Silence having
been commanded, he proceeded thus: “The bees had lost their queen, and
the whole hive was melancholy and joyless.  They flew out idly and
sparingly, they had scarcely spirits for making honey, and their
pursuit and nourishment was on the decline.  They therefore thought
seriously about a new sovereign who should preside over their affairs,
that all order and discipline might not be lost.  The wasp then came
and said: ‘Make me your queen, I am strong and terrible, the stout
horse fears my sting, I can defy even your hereditary foe the lion, and
prick his mouth when he approaches your honey-tree.  I will guard you
and protect you.’  This discourse was pleasing enough to the bees, but
after mature deliberation the wisest among them said: ‘Thou art
vigorous and terrible to be sure, but we dread that very sting which is
to defend us; therefore thou canst not be our queen.’  Then the humble
bee came up humming, and said: ‘Take me for your queen!  Do you not
hear that the rustle of my wings announces rank and dignity?  Besides,
I too have a sting to protect you.’  The bees answered, we are a
peaceful and quiet race; the proud noise of thy wings would annoy us
and disturb the pursuits of our industry; thou canst not be our queen.’
Then the ant desired a hearing: ‘Although I am larger and stronger than
you,’ she said, ‘my superiority can never injure you, for see I am
entirely without the dangerous sting, I am of a gentle disposition, and
besides that, a friend of order, of frugality, know how to preside over
the honey-tree and to encourage labour.’ The bees then said: ‘Thou art
worthy to govern us--we will obey thee--be thou our queen!’”

Wladomir paused.  The whole assembly divined the purport of the
discourse, and the minds of all were favourably disposed towards the
Lady Libussa.  Yet at the very moment when they were about to collect
the votes, a croaking raven flew over the place of election; this
unfavourable omen interrupted all further deliberation, and the
election was deferred to the following day.  The Lady Bela had sent the
ill-omened bird to disturb the proceedings, for she knew well enough
the inclination of the voters, and Prince Wladomir had inspired her
with the bitterest hate.  She held counsel with her sister Therba, and
they came to the determination that they would be revenged on the
common calumniator, who had insulted both of them, and despatched a
heavy nightmare, that should squeeze the soul out of his body.  The
bold knight suspected nothing of this danger, but went, as was his
wont, to wait upon his mistress, and received from her the first kind
look, from which he promised himself a whole heaven of bliss.  If any
thing could increase his delight, it was the present of a rose which
adorned the lady’s bosom, and which she gave him with the order that he
was to let it wither by his heart.  To these words he gave an
interpretation very different from that which was meant, since no
science is more fallacious than the art of expounding in love.  There
mistakes are quite at home.  The enamoured knight was bent on keeping
the rose fresh and blooming as long as possible; he set it in fresh
water in a flower-pot, and went to sleep with the most flattering hopes.

In the gloomy hour of midnight came the destroying angel, sent by the
Lady Bela.  He glided in; he blew open, with his gasping breath, the
locks and bolts on the doors of the bed-room, and fell with immense
weight on the sleeping knight, pressing him down with such suffocating
force, that he thought, when he woke, a mill-stone had been rolled upon
his neck.  In this painful situation, while he fancied the last moment
of his life was come, he fortunately thought of the rose which stood in
the flower-pot by his bed, pressed it to his heart, and said: “Fade
away with me, fair rose, and perish on my lifeless bosom, as a proof
that my last thought was bestowed on thy lovely possessor.”  At once
his heart became lighter, the heavy nightmare could not resist the
magic power of the flower, his oppressive weight did not now exceed
that of so much down; the dislike of the perfume soon drove him out of
the chamber altogether, and the narcotic quality of the scent again
lulled the knight into a refreshing slumber.  At sunrise he rose fresh
and cheerful, and rode to the place of election to ascertain what
impression his simile had made on the minds of the electors, and to
observe the course that the affair might take this time; intending, at
all events, if any opposing gale should arise, and threaten to run
aground the wavering boat of his hopes and wishes, at once to seize on
the helm and steer directly against it.

This time, however, there was no danger.  The solemn electoral senate
had during the night so thoroughly ruminated on, and digested
Wladomir’s parable, that it was actually infused into their very heart
and mind.  A brisk knight, who perceived these favourable crises, and
who in affairs of the heart sympathised with the tender Wladomir,
endeavoured either to deprive the latter of the honour of placing the
lady on the Bohemian throne, or at any rate to share it with him.  He
stepped forward, drew his sword, proclaimed with a loud voice, Libussa,
Duchess of Bohemia, and desired every one who had the same opinion to
draw the sword like him and defend his choice.  At once several hundred
swords glittered on the place of election, a loud cry of joy announced
the new sovereign, and on all sides resounded the shout of the people:
“Let Libussa be our duchess!”  A deputation was appointed, with Prince
Wladomir and the sword-drawer at the head of it, to announce to the
lady her elevation to the ducal rank.  With the modest blush which
gives to female charms the highest expression of grace, she accepted
the sovereignty over the people, and every heart was subjugated by the
magic of her pleasing aspect.  The people paid her homage with the
greatest delight, and although the two sisters envied her, and employed
their secret arts to avenge themselves both on her and their country,
for the slight that had been offered them, endeavouring by the leaven
of calumny and malicious interpretation of all their sister’s deeds and
actions, to bring about in the nation a shameful ferment, and to
undermine the peace and happiness of her mild virgin dominion; yet
Libussa knew how to meet these unsisterly attempts with prudence, and
to annihilate all the hostile plans and spells of the unnatural pair,
till at last they were tired of exercising upon her their inefficient
powers.

The sighing Wladomir waited in the meanwhile with the most ardent
longing for the development of his fate.  More than once he ventured to
foresee the end in the lovely eyes of his sovereign, but Libussa had
imposed a deep silence on the inclinations of her heart, and it is
always a precarious proceeding to require from a mistress a verbal
declaration without a previous intercourse with the eyes and their
significant glances.  The one favourable sign which still kept his
hopes alive was the imperishable rose, which, though a year had
elapsed, blossomed as freshly now as on the evening when he received it
from the hand of the fair Libussa.  A flower from a maiden’s hand, a
nosegay, a ribbon, or a lock of hair, is certainly more valuable than a
tooth dropped out, but nevertheless all these pretty things are but
doubtful pledges of love, unless some more certain expressions gives
them a determined signification.  Wladomir, therefore quietly played
the part of a sighing swain in the court of his idol, and waited to see
what time and circumstances might produce in his favour.  The
boisterous knight Mizisla, on the other hand, carried on his plan with
far more spirit, and did all he could to make himself conspicuous on
every occasion.  On the day of homage he was the first vassal who made
the oath of allegiance to the new princess; he followed her as
inseparably as the moon follows the earth, that by unasked-for services
he might show his devotion to her person, and on solemn occasions and
in processions he made his sword flash in her eyes, that she might not
forget what good service it had done her.

Nevertheless, following the way of the world, Libussa seemed very near
to have forgotten the furtherers of her good fortune; since, when an
obelisk once stands upright, we think no more of the levers and
instruments that raised it--at least so did the candidates for her
heart interpret the lady’s coldness.  Both, however, were wrong; the
noble sovereign was neither insensible nor ungrateful; but her heart
was no more so completely in her power, that she could do with it
whatever she pleased.  Love had already decided in favour of the slim
hunter.  The first impression which the sight of him had made on her
heart was still so strong, that no second one could efface it.  Three
years had passed, and the colours of imagination with which the
graceful youth had been sketched, were neither rubbed out, nor had they
become faint, and thus her love was proved to be perfect.  For the love
of the fair sex is of such a nature and quality, that if it will stand
the test of three moons, it will generally last three times three, and
longer, according to the evidence and example of our own times.  When
the heroic sons of Germany swam over distant seas, to fight out the
domestic squabble of the wilful daughter of Britannia with her mother
country, they tore themselves from the arms of their fair ones, with
mutual protestations of truth and fidelity; but before they had passed
the last buoy of the Weser, the greater part of them were forgotten by
their Chloes.  The fickle damsels, tired of having their hearts
unoccupied, filled up the gap with new intrigues; but the faithful
ones, who had had constancy enough to endure the Weser ordeal, and who,
when the owners of their hearts were on the other side of the black
buoy, had been guilty of no infidelity--these, they say, have kept
their vow inviolate, until the return of their heroes into their German
father-land, and now merit from the hands of love the reward of their
constancy.

It was therefore less remarkable, that, under the circumstances, the
Lady Libussa could refuse the hand of the blooming knights who
solicited her heart, than that the fair Queen of Ithaca let a whole
host of suitors sigh after her in vain, while her heart had only the
grey-bearded Ulysses in reserve.  Nevertheless, rank and high birth so
very much overbalanced the attachment the lady felt for the beloved of
her heart, that any thing more than a Platonic passion--that empty
shade, which neither warms nor nourishes--was not to be hoped.
Although, in those remote times, people cared as little about writing
out genealogies, according to parchment and pedigree, as they did about
arranging classes of beetles according to their wings and feelers, or
flowers according to their stamens, pistils, calyx, and nectary, they
knew, nevertheless, that the delicious grape alone associates with the
stately elm, and not the weed that creeps along the hedge.  A
_mésalliance_ caused by a difference of rank an inch wide, did not
then, certainly, excite so much pedantic noise as in our classic days;
but, however, a difference a yard wide, especially if rivals stood in
the interval, and perceived the distance of the two ends, was
observable enough.  All this, and more than this, the lady maturely
weighed in her prudent mind, and therefore she did not give a hearing
to the deceitful prattler, passion, loud as it might speak to the
advantage of the youth, who was favoured by love.  As a chaste vestal,
she made an irrevocable vow that she would keep her heart locked up in
virgin secresy for the period of her life, and that she would not
answer any address of her suitors, either with her eyes or with her
gestures; with the reserve, however, that she might platonise as much
as she pleased, by way of compensation.  This monastic system pleased
the two aspirants so little, that they did not know what to make of the
killing coldness of their sovereign; jealousy, the companion of love,
whispered into their ear; one thought the other was his rival, and
their spirit of observation was unwearying, in trying to make
discoveries, which both of them dreaded.  But the Lady Libussa, with
prudence and acuteness, weighed out her scanty favours to the two
honourable knights with such an equal balance, that neither scale
kicked the beam.

Tired of waiting in vain, both the knights left their princess’s court,
and with secret discontent retired to the estates, which Duke Crocus
had granted them for military service.  Both took home such a stock of
ill-humour, that Prince Wladomir was a perfect pest to all his vassals
and neighbours, while Prince Mizisla turned sportsman, chasing deer and
foxes over the fields and enclosures of his subjects, and often
treading three quarters of corn, when with his train he was following a
hare.  This occasioned many complaints in the country; but, however,
there was no judge to remedy the evil, for no one likes to contend with
the stronger, and hence this way the oppression of the people never
reached the throne of the duchess.  Nevertheless, through her
supernatural power, no act of injustice, within the wide boundaries of
her realm, remained hidden; and because her disposition corresponded to
the tender character of her lovely form, she was afflicted at the
wickedness of her vassals, and the wrongs committed by the strongest.
She consulted with herself as to how the evil could be remedied, and
prudence suggested that she should follow the example of the wise gods,
who, in administering justice, never punish the offender directly the
offence is committed; although slowly stepping vengeance is sure,
sooner or later, to strike at last.  The young princess summoned all
the knighthood and states to a general diet, and caused it to be
publicly proclaimed, that whoever had a complaint to make, or a wrong
to denounce, might come forward freely and without fear, and should
have a safe conduct.  Then the oppressed and harassed came from all
parts of the country; litigious folks came besides; in fact, all who
had some law affair in hand.  Libussa sat on the throne, like the
goddess Themis, with sword and scales, and uttered justice with
unfailing judgment, and without respect of persons, for she was not led
astray, and the labyrinthian courses of chicane did not mislead her, as
they do the thick heads of stupid magistrates, while every body was
surprised at the wisdom with which she unravelled the tangled skein of
law-suits in affairs of meum and teum, and at the unwearied patience
with which she found out, and wound off, the hidden thread of justice,
without pulling a wrong end.

When the throng of parties who had assembled at the bar of the tribunal
had gradually diminished, and the sittings were about to terminate--on
the very last court-day, a settler on the borders of the wealthy
Wladomir’s estate, and a deputation from the subjects of the sporting
Mizisla, desired a hearing, that they might bring in their complaint.
They were admitted, and the settler spoke first.  “An industrious
planter,” said he, “enclosed a little piece of ground on the bank of a
broad river, the silver stream of which flowed, gently murmuring, into
the pleasant valley below; for he thought that the fair stream would
protect him on one side from the voracious animals that might devour
his crops, and also water the roots of his fruit-trees, that they might
soon ripen and grow up, and bear fruit plentifully.  However, just as
his fruit began to get ripe, the deceitful river became troubled, its
quiet waters began to swell and roar, overwhelmed the bank, tore away
one piece of the fruitful field after another, and made for themselves
a bed in the middle of the cultured soil, to the great sorrow of the
poor planter, who was forced to give up his property, as a sport for
the malice of his powerful neighbour, whose raging flood he himself
escaped with difficulty.  Mighty daughter of the wise Crocus, the poor
planter entreats thee to give orders to the haughty stream, that it may
cease to roll its proud waves over the field of the industrious
husbandman, that it may no more thus absorb the sweat of his brow, and
his hopes of a prosperous harvest, but quietly flow within the limits
of its own proper bed.”

During this discourse, a cloud gathered on the serene brow of the fair
Libussa, a manly earnestness shone from her eyes, and those around
became all ear, that they might hear her decision, which was as
follows: “Thy cause is plain and right; no violence shall pervert its
justice.  A firm dam shall set a proper limit and measure to the wild
stream, that it may not flow beyond; and I, with its fishes, will make
thee a seven-fold compensation for the depredation of its waters.”  She
then made a sign for the eldest of the deputation to speak; and,
turning his head to the court, he said thus: “Wise daughter of the
renowned Crocus, tell us to whom belongs the seed of the field--to the
sower, who has buried it in the earth, that it may spring up and
multiply, or to the hurricane who hurls it down, and scatters it?”--“To
the sower,” she replied.  “Then,” said the speaker, “give orders to the
hurricane, that it may not select our fields as the spot for its
wantonness, trample down our grain, and shake our fruit-trees.”--

“So be it,” said the duchess; “I will tame the hurricane, and banish it
from your fields.  It shall fight with the clouds, and scatter them,
when they rise from the earth, threatening the land with hail and heavy
storms.”

Prince Wladomir and the knight Mizisla were both present at the general
court.  When they heard the complaint that had been made, and heard the
solemn sentence of the princess, they grew pale, and smothering their
wrath fixed their eyes upon the ground, not daring to own to themselves
how much they were galled at being condemned by the sentence from the
mouth of a woman.  For although to shield their honour, the
complainants had modestly hung an allegoric veil over their accusation,
and even the just decision of the sovereign judge had shown a prudent
respect for this covering, the web was, notwithstanding, so fine and
transparent, that whoever had eyes could see what stood behind it.  As
they did not venture to appeal from the throne of the princess to the
people, the judgment just given against them having caused general
exultation, they could only submit with it, although most unwillingly.
Wladomir made seven-fold reparation to his neighbour the settler, for
the injury that had been done, and Nimrod Mizisla was obliged to pledge
his knightly word that he would not select his subject’s corn fields as
a place for hare-hunting.  At the same time Libussa gave them a
glorious employment, that they might exercise their activity, and
restore the tone of knightly virtue to their name, which now sounded
discordantly like a cracked vessel.  She placed both at the head of her
army, which she sent out against Zornebock, prince of the Salians, a
giant, and moreover a powerful sorcerer, who was then about making war
against Bohemia, and imposed upon them as a penance, the condition that
they should not return to their court, until one brought the plume and
the other the golden spurs of the monster as a trophy of victory.

The unfading rose still preserved its magic power during this
expedition, rendering Prince Wladomir as invulnerable to mortal
weapons, as Achilles the hero, and as nimble and active as Achilles the
swift-footed.  The armies met on the northern border of the territory,
and the signal to fight was given.  The Bohemian heroes flew through
the opposing forces like storm and whirlwind, and mowed down the thick
crop of lances, as the reaper’s sickle mows down a field of wheat.
Zornebock fell a victim to their mighty sword-cuts; they returned back
to Vizegrad in triumph with the booty they had acquired, and the spots
and soils which had before tainted their knightly virtue, they had
washed out in the blood of the enemy.  The Duchess Libussa rewarded
them with all the distinctions of princely favour, dismissed them, when
the army was disbanded to their own residence, and as a new mark of her
esteem gave them a ruddy apple from her own garden for a keepsake, with
the instructions that they were to share it peaceably without cutting
it.  They went their way, placed the apple on a shield, and had it
carried before them, while they consulted together how they should set
about making division with proper discretion, so that they might not be
mistaken in their gentle sovereign’s meaning.

Before they reached the crossway that was to separate them, so that
each might follow the road that led to his own residence, they adhered
to the treaty of partition amicably enough, but now the point was who
should keep the apple, to which they both had equal right.  Only one,
it was evident, could retain it, and both promised themselves such
wonders that each longed to possess it.  Upon this they quarrelled, and
the sword nearly had to decide to whom the fortune of arms had assigned
the indivisible apple.  A shepherd, however, happened to be driving his
flock along the same road, so they chose him for their umpire, and laid
their case before him, probably because the three celebrated goddesses
had applied to a shepherd to settle their affair about an apple.  The
man reflected a little, and said,

“In this present of an apple lies a deeply hidden signification; yet
who can probe it but the wise maiden who has there concealed it?  I
suspect that the apple is a deceitful fruit, which grew upon the tree
of discord, and the red skin of which signifies bloody contentions
among you, knights,--that one shall irritate the other, and that
neither shall reap any joy from the gift.  For tell me how is it
possible to share an apple without dividing it?”  The two knights took
to heart the shepherd’s advice, which they thought contained great
wisdom.  “Thou art right,” said they, “has not the base apple already
kindled anger and quarrel between us?  Were we not on the point of
fighting for the deceptive gift of the proud maiden who hates us both?
Did she not place us at the head of her army, because she thought we
should be killed?  And because that method did not succeed, she now
arms us with the knife of discord against each other.  We declare
ourselves free from the deceitful gift; neither of us shall bear the
apple, but it shall be the reward of thy honest decision.  The fruit of
the law-suit belongs to the judge, and the parings to the contending
parties.”

The knights then went their way, while the shepherd devoured the
subject of the suit with that ease, which is peculiar to judges.  The
duchess’s equivocal gift annoyed them greatly, and when on returning
home, they found that they could not lord it over their vassals and
subjects so arbitrarily as before, but were forced to obey the laws,
their indignation increased still more.  They entered into an alliance
offensive and defensive, made for themselves a faction in the country,
and the numerous rebels who joined them they despatched to all the
districts around, that they might cry down female government.  “Oh,
shame!” cried they, “that we are subject to a woman who gathers our
laurels that she may twine them round her distaff.  A man ought to be
master of the house, not a woman,--that is man’s peculiar right,--that
is the custom among all people.  What is an army without a duke to
march in front of his warriors, but a helpless trunk without a head?
Let us appoint a prince who may rule over us, and whom we may obey.”

Discourses of this kind did not remain concealed from the vigilant
princess.  She knew, besides, whence the wind came, and what the sound
of it signified; and, therefore, she called a select assembly of the
deputies, stepped into the midst of them with the dignity and splendour
of an earthly goddess, while her speech flowed like honey from her
virgin lips.  “There is a rumour in the country,” said she to the
assembly, “that you desire a duke, who will lead you to battle, and
that you consider it inglorious to show further obedience to me.
Nevertheless, from your own free and unconfined desire, you chose from
the midst of you, not a man, but one of the daughters of the people,
and clothed her with the purple that she might rule over you according
to the usage and custom of the country.  Now, whoever can convict me of
a fault in my government, let him come forward freely and openly and
bear witness against me.  If, however, I have administered justice
after the manner of my father Crocus; if I have made the hills
straight, the crooked places even, the abysses passable; if I have
secured your harvests, rescued your herds from the wolf, and guarded
your fruit-trees; if I have bowed the stiff-neck of the violent, aided
the oppressed, and given a staff to support the weak, then, I say, it
becomes you to adhere to your promise, and, according to your oath of
fealty, to be faithful and true to me, and to do me good service.  If
you think it inglorious to serve a woman, you should have considered
that before you appointed me to be your princess.  If there was any
thing wrong in that choice, it reverts to yourselves.  However, this
proceeding on your part shows that you do not understand your own
interest.  The female hand is soft and gentle, accustomed to raise only
gentle breezes with the fan; but man’s arm is sinewy and rough, heavy
and oppressive, when he holds the weight of authority.  Besides, do you
know, that when a woman rules, the sovereignty is still in the hand of
man?  For she gives hearing to wise councillors; but when the distaff
excludes from the throne, there is female government; for the girls,
who please the king’s eyes, have possession of his heart.  Reflect
well, then, on what you do, that you may not repent too late of your
fickleness.”

The speaker from the throne was silent, a deep reverential silence
prevailed in the hall of assembly, and no one ventured to utter a word
against her.  Nevertheless Prince Wladomir and his party did not
abandon their project, but whispered among themselves: “The cunning
chamois is striving not to leave the rich pasture; but the hunter’s
horn shall sound still louder, and scare it away.”  The next day they
stirred up the body of knights, loudly to request the queen to choose a
husband within three days, and by the choice of her heart to give the
people a prince, who should share the government with her.  At this
sudden demand, which seemed to be the voice of the people, a virgin
blush tinged the cheeks of the charming Libussa, and her bright eye saw
all the rocks beneath the water, that threatened her on this occasion.
Even if, according to the custom of the great world, she attempted to
bring her inclinations under the sway of policy, she could, at any
rate, only give her hand to one suitor, and then she saw that all the
rest would regard their rejection as an insult and meditate revenge.
Besides the secret vow of her heart was to her sacred and inviolable,
and therefore she prudently endeavoured to avoid the pressing request
of the deputies, and to make one attempt more to dissuade them
altogether from having a duke.  “After the death of the eagle,” she
said, “the feathered tribe chose the wood-pigeon for their queen, and
all the birds were obedient to her soft cooing voice.  Yet, being light
and airy, as is the nature of birds, they soon altered this resolution,
and began to repent.  The haughty peacock thought that he was more
qualified to rule; the greedy hawk accustomed to chase the small birds
considered it disgraceful to be subject to a dove.  They therefore made
for themselves a faction, and appointed the purblind owl as their
spokesman to propose a new election for a king.  The dull bustard, the
unwieldy mountain-cock, the lazy stork, the lack-brain heron, and all
the larger birds chattered and cackled loud applause, and the host of
little birds from foolishness twittered, in the same manner, from hedge
and bush.  Then the warlike kite rose boldly into the air, and all the
birds cried out, ‘What a majestic flight!  What a lightning glance in
those rolling eyes of fire, what an expression of superiority in the
hooked beak, and the widely-grasping claws!  The bold, hardy kite shall
be our ruler.’  Scarcely had the bird of prey ascended the throne, than
he displayed his activity and strength to his fellow-subjects with
great tyranny and arrogance.  From the larger birds he plucked their
feathers, and the little singing birds he tore to pieces.”

Plain as the meaning of this discourse was, it made but little
impression on the minds of those who were anxious for a change of
government, and the popular decision that the Lady Libussa should
choose a husband within three days, remained valid.  At this Prince
Wladomir much rejoiced in his heart, for he now thought he should gain
the lovely prize for which he had so long striven in vain.  Love and
ambition fired his wishes, and made eloquent his mouth, which had
hitherto only allowed itself secret sighs.  He went to the court and
solicited a hearing of the duchess.  “Gracious sovereign of thy people
and of my heart,” he said, “from thee no secret is concealed, thou
knowest the flames that glow in this bosom, as purely and holily as
those upon the altar of the gods, and thou knowest the celestial fire
that has kindled them.  The time is at hand when thou must give a
prince to the land, at the bidding of thy people.  Can’st thou slight a
heart which only lives and beats for thee?  To be worthy of thee I have
ventured my life and blood in raising thee to the throne of thy father.
Let me have the merit of maintaining thee there by the tie of tender
love; let us share the possession of the throne and of thy heart.  The
former shall be thine, the latter mine, and then will my happiness be
exalted above the lot of mortals.”  The Lady Libussa deported herself
in a very maiden-like manner on hearing this address, and covered her
face with a veil that she might conceal the gentle blush that gave a
deeper colour to her cheek.  With her hand she made a sign for Prince
Wladomir to withdraw, without opening her mouth, as if to consider how
she should answer him with respect to his suit.

The bold knight Mizisla then announced himself and desired to be
admitted.  “Loveliest of the daughters of princes,” he said, as he
entered the audience-chamber, “the beautiful dove, the queen of the
realms of air shall, as thou knowest, no more coo alone, but seek for
herself a mate.  The proud peacock, as the story goes, makes his varied
feathers glitter in her eyes, and imagines that he will dazzle her with
their brilliancy, but she is modest and wise, and will not unite
herself to the haughty peacock.  The greedy hawk, once a bird of prey,
has quite cast off his nature; he is good and gentle, nay without
guile, for he loves the fair dove, and hopes that she will espouse him.
His crooked beak and sharp claws should not mislead thee.  These he
needs to protect his beloved dove, that no other bird may injure her or
endeavour to overthrow the seat of her dominion, for he is faithful and
true, and first vowed fealty to her on the day of her elevation.  Tell
me then, wise princess, if the gentle dove will deign to bestow on her
faithful hawk the love to which he aspires?”

The Lady Libussa did as before, made a sign for the knight also to
retire, and after she had let him wait awhile called in the two suitors
and said, “I owe you a debt of gratitude, noble knights, inasmuch as
you both assisted me in succeeding to the Bohemian crown, which my
father Crocus wore with glory.  And I have not forgotten that zeal in
my cause, of which you remind me.  Moreover, it is not hidden from me
that you virtuously love me, for your looks and actions have long
expressed the feelings of your hearts.  That my heart has remained
closed to you, and has not given love for love, do not ascribe that to
mere coyness; I did not mean to insult you, but merely to come to a
right decision of a dubious matter.  I weighed your merits, and the
index of the balance stood still.  Therefore I resolved to leave the
decision of your fate to yourselves, and offered you the possession of
my heart by the enigmatical apple, that I might see who had the
greatest share of wisdom and intelligence, so as to appropriate to
himself the indivisible gift.  Now tell me, without delay, in whose
hand is the apple.  Whoever has gained it from the other, let him from
this hour take my throne and my heart for his prize.”  The two suitors
looked upon each other with wonder, grew pale and were dumb.  At last
Prince Wladomir after a long pause broke silence and said, “The enigmas
of the wise are to the foolish, a nut in a toothless mouth; a pearl
which the fowl rakes out of the sand, a light in the hand of the blind.
Therefore, oh, princess! be not angry that we knew neither how to use
nor how to prize thy gift.  Thy design, which we did not know we
misinterpreted, and we thought thou hadst cast between us an apple of
discord, which should incite us to feuds and combat, and therefore each
of us abandoned participation in thy gift, and got rid of the fruit of
contention, a sole possession of which neither of us would have left to
the other.”

“You have yourself uttered the judgment,” said the lady; “if an apple
was enough to arouse your jealousy, what battle would you have waged
for a myrtle wreath that encircles a crown.”  With this decision she
dismissed the knights, who were greatly annoyed that they had listened
to the senseless arbitrator, and had thoughtlessly flung away the
pledge of love, that was to have gained them the bride.  They now
considered, each one by himself, how they might yet carry out their
plans, and by force or cunning obtain the Bohemian throne with its
charming possessor.

The Lady Libussa was not inactive during the three days that were left
her for deliberation, but was constantly considering how she might meet
the pressing wishes of her people, give the nation a duke, and herself
a husband, according to the choice of her heart.  She feared that
Prince Wladomir would urge his pretensions with force, or at any rate
deprive her of the throne.  Necessity assisted love, and inspired her
with the resolution of carrying out the plan, with which, as with a
pleasant dream, she had often amused herself; for, indeed, what mortal
is there, whose head is not haunted by some phantom or other, at which
he grasps in a vacant hour, that he may play with it as with a doll?
The gift of prophecy has always been associated with a glowing fancy;
consequently the fair Libussa readily listened at times to this
pleasant playmate, and the agreeable confidant always entertained her
with the image of the young hunter, who had made so permanent an
impression on her heart.  A thousand projects came into her head, which
her imagination flattered her were easy and practicable.  Now she had a
plan of rescuing the dear youth from obscurity, placing him in the
army, and advancing him from one post of honour to another; fancy would
then at once fling a wreath of laurel on his brow, and lead him crowned
with victory and glory to the throne, which she shared with him,
delighted.  Now she gave the romance another turn; she armed her
favourite as a knight-errant out upon adventures, conducted him to her
court, turned him into a Huon of Bordeaux, and was in no want of
wonderful apparatus to endow him as friend Oberon did his protégé.  But
when cool reflection again took possession of her maiden mind, and the
variegated figures of the magic lantern grew pale at the bright ray of
prudence, the lovely dream had vanished.  She thought how great would
be the risk of such a proceeding, and what mischief might befal her
land and people, if jealousy and envy incited against her the hearts of
the Magnates, and the alarm of discord give the signal for rebellion.
She therefore carefully concealed the inclinations and wishes of her
heart from the keen eye of the observer, and allowed nothing to be
perceived.

However, now the people were desirous for a prince, the affair had
taken another turn, and she had only to make her own wishes accord with
those of the nation.  She fortified her courage with manly resolution,
and when the third day dawned she put on all her jewels, placing on her
head the chaste crown of myrtle.  Attended by her maidens, who were all
adorned with wreaths of flowers, she ascended the throne full of high
courage and gentle dignity.  The assembly of knights and vassals around
her was all ear, that it might catch from her lovely mouth the name of
the fortunate prince with whom she had resolved to share her heart and
throne.  “Nobles of my people,” said she to the assembly, “the lot of
your destiny still lies untouched in the urn of concealment, and you
are still as free as my horses that feed in the meadow, before bridle
and bit have curbed them, and the weight of the rider and the burden of
the saddle have pressed their slender back.  It now behoves you to tell
me, whether the time which you have granted me for the choice of a
husband has cooled the warm desire of seeing a prince ruling over you,
and prompted you quietly to examine your project, or whether you still
adhere unchangeably to your intention.”  For a moment she was silent,
but the tumult among the people, the noise and whispering together with
the gestures of the assembled senators, did not leave her long in
uncertainty, and the speaker confirmed the ultimatum, that the decision
was left to the choice of her heart.  “Well!” she said, “the lot is
cast; I answer for nothing.  The gods have selected for the kingdom of
Bohemia a prince who will wield his sceptre with wisdom and justice.
The young cedar tree does not raise its head above the strong oaks;
concealed among the trees of the forest it grows, surrounded by ignoble
brushwood, but soon it will extend its branches so as to shade the
root, and its crown will touch the clouds.  Nobles of the people,
select from among you a deputation of twelve honest men, to seek the
prince and accompany him to the throne.  My horse shall show them the
path, trotting before you free and unburdened; and as a sign that you
have found that which you are sent out to seek, observe that the man
whom the gods have selected for your prince, will at the time when you
approach him, be taking his meal at an iron table, beneath the open
sky, and in the shadow of a lonely tree.  To him must you pay homage,
and adorn him with the signs of princely dignity.  The white horse will
allow him to mount his back, and bring him here to court that he may be
my husband and your sovereign.”

She then dismissed the assembly with the cheerful, but bashful mien,
which is customary with brides when they expect the arrival of the
bridegroom.  All were astonished at her speech, and the prophetic
spirit which peered from it rushed upon their minds like an utterance
of the gods, to which the mob blindly attaches belief, and about which
none but thinkers indulge in sapient opinions.  The deputation was
appointed, and the white horse stood in readiness, bridled and adorned
with Asiatic magnificence, as if it was to bear the Grand Seignior to
the mosque.  The cavalcade was soon in motion, amid the concourse of
curious people, who were shouting with joy, and the white horse proudly
led the way.  Soon, however, the train disappeared from the eyes of the
spectators, and nothing was to be seen but a cloud of dust rising in
the distance, for the spirited horse as soon as he came into the open
country began to run as swiftly as a British racer, indeed so swiftly,
that the deputation had a difficulty in following him.  Although the
rapid courser seemed left entirely to himself, an invisible power
directed his course, guided his bridle, and spurred his sides.  The
Lady Libussa by the magic she had inherited from her mother, had been
able so to train the horse that he neither deviated to the right or the
left of his path, but with great speed hurried at once to his
destination, and now when all seemed arranged so as to fulfil her
wishes, she awaited with tender longing the arrival of the comer.

The deputies in the meanwhile had had a fine chase; they had already
performed a journey of several miles, uphill and downhill, they had
swam through the Moldau and the Elbe, and because their stomachs
reminded them of meal-time, they thought again of the wondrous table,
at which their new prince, according to the words of the lady, was to
be seated.  On this subject they made all sorts of remarks and
comments.  One inconsiderate knight said to his fellows: “Methinks our
lady duchess has sent us to make April fools of us, for who ever heard
of a man in Bohemia that dined at an iron table.  What do you lay that
our rash undertaking will bring us any thing besides jeering and
mockery?”  But another, who was more intelligent, thought that the iron
table might have a symbolical meaning, and that they would perhaps meet
with some knight-errant reposing under a tree, after the fashion of the
wandering brotherhood, and serving up his frugal meal on his brazen
shield.  A third said jestingly:

“I fear that our way will take us straight down to the workshop of the
Cyclops, and that we shall have to take back to our Venus the lame
Vulcan or one of his mates, who makes a table of his anvil.”

Discussing in this fashion they saw their leader, the white horse,
which had considerably the start of them, trot across a newly ploughed
field, and, to their surprise, stop by a ploughman.  They flew at once
to the spot, and found a peasant sitting on a plough, which had been
turned upside down, beneath the shade of a wild pear tree, and eating
his black bread from an iron ploughshare, which he used as a table.  He
seemed pleased with the beautiful horse, treated him kindly, and
offered him a bit of his meal, and which he eat out of his hand.  The
ambassadors were very much astonished at this sight, but nevertheless
none of them doubted that they had found their man.  They approached
him with reverence, and the eldest taking up the discourse said:

“The Duchess of Bohemia has sent us to thee, and bids us announce to
thee that it is the will and decree of the gods that thou shalt
exchange that plough for the throne of this territory, and that goad
for the sceptre.  She chooses thee for her husband, that with her thou
mayst rule over Bohemia.”

The young peasant thought they were making game of him, which seemed to
him very _mal-à-propos_, especially as he thought they had fathomed the
secret of his heart, and were come to scoff at his weakness.  He,
therefore, answered somewhat haughtily, in order to return scorn for
scorn:

“Let us see whether your duchy is worthy of this plough?  If the prince
cannot satisfy his hunger, drink more merrily, nor sleep more soundly
than the peasant, it is certainly not worth the trouble to change this
fruitful field for the land of Bohemia, or this smooth ox-goad for a
sceptre;--for tell me, will not a salt-cellar as well season my morsel
as a bushel?”

Upon this one of the twelve remarked: “The mole shunning the light,
grovels for the worms under ground, that he may support himself, for he
has not eyes that can endure the beam of day, nor feet that are made to
run like those of the swift roe; the scaly crab crawls in the mud of
the lakes and marshes, loves best to dwell among the roots of the trees
and brushwood on the river side, for he lacks fins to swim; and the
domestic cock, kept in the poultry-yard, does not venture to fly over
the low wall, for he is too timid to trust himself to his wings, like
the up-soaring kite.  Now if eyes are given for seeing, feet for
walking, fins for swimming, and wings for flying, thou wilt not grovel
in the earth like a mole, hide in the marsh like an unwieldy crab, or,
like the lord of poultry, be content to crow on a dunghill, but thou
wilt come forward into the light of day, run, swim, or fly to the
clouds, accordingly as nature has endowed thee with her gifts.  For an
active man is not content with being what he is, but strives to become
what he can be.  Therefore try to be that which the gods have appointed
thee, and then thou wilt be able to judge whether or not the land of
Bohemia is worth a field in exchange.”

This serious discourse of the delegate, in which nothing of a jesting
nature was to be perceived, and still more the insignia of princely
dignity--the purple raiment, the staff of government, and the golden
sword, which the ambassadors produced as vouchers and testimonials of
their true mission--at last overcame the mistrust of the doubting
ploughman.  At once his soul became enlightened; and the transporting
thought was awakened in him, that the Lady Libussa had divined the
feelings of his heart, had perceived his constancy and fidelity, by the
aid of her faculty to discover what was hidden, and had determined to
reward them in a manner which he would never have hoped for even in a
dream.  The gift of prophecy promised to him by his oracle came again
into his mind, and he reflected that this promise must be accomplished
now or never.  He quickly seized his hazel staff, set it deep in the
field, heaped loose earth about it, as one does when one plants trees,
and behold, the staff was immediately decked with buds, and shot forth
sprouts and branches covered with leaves and flowers.  Two of the
verdant boughs faded, and their dry foliage became a sport for the
winds, but the third grew with so much the greater strength, and its
fruits ripened.  The spirit of prophecy then descended on the rapt
ploughman, and, opening his lips, he spoke thus:

“Messengers of the Princess Libussa and of the Bohemian people, hear
the words of Premislas, the son of Mnatha, the honourable knight, to
whom, touched by the spirit of prophecy, the clouds of the future are
opened.  You call upon the man who was guiding his plough to take the
management of your principality before his daily work is finished.  Ah,
would that the plough had surrounded the field with its furrows as far
as the boundary stone, for then Bohemia would have been an independent
land for ever!  Now that you have too soon disturbed the work of the
ploughman, the boundaries of your land will be the portion and
inheritance of a neighbour, and your remote posterity will cleave to
him in indissoluble union.  The three branches of the verdant staff
promise your princess three sons.  Two of them will fade away as
immature shoots, but the third will inherit the throne, and through him
will the fruit of later descendants be ripened, until the eagle shall
fly over the mountains and nestle in the land, and then fly away to
return as unto his own possession.  If then the son of the gods[2]
shall come forth, who is a friend to the ploughman, and frees him from
his slavish chains--then mark him, posterity, for thou wilt have cause
to bless thy fate.  He, when he has trodden under foot the serpent of
superstition, will stretch out his hand towards the increasing moon to
pluck it from the heavens, that he himself may illumine the world as a
beneficent star.”

The venerable deputation stood in silent reverence, staring at the
prophet like so many dunces; it seemed as though a god was speaking in
him.  But he turned away from the deputies to the companions of his
wearisome toil--the two white oxen, loosened them from the yoke, and
set them at liberty, upon which they bounded merrily about the grassy
field, then visibly faded away, as light clouds melt into air, and
finally vanished completely.  Premislas now took off his rustic wooden
shoes, and went to wash himself in the neighbouring brook.  Costly
garments were put on him, he girded himself with the sword in knightly
fashion, and had the golden spurs fastened.  He then sprang upon the
white horse which allowed him to mount with docility.  As he was just
on the point of quitting the estate he had hitherto possessed, he told
the deputies to carry after him the wooden shoes, which he had now put
off, and preserve them as a testimony that the humblest of the people
had once been raised to the highest rank in Bohemia, and as a _memento_
that he and his posterity might not presume upon the rank he had
acquired, but, mindful of their origin, might honour and protect the
peasant class from which they had sprung.  Hence arose the old custom
of exhibiting to the kings of Bohemia a pair of shoes on the day of
their coronation--a custom which was observed until the race of
Premislas became extinct.  The hazel itself, which had been planted,
grew and bore fruit, spreading its roots widely around, and sending
forth new shoots until at last the whole field was turned into a wood
of hazel trees, which proved most advantageous to the neighbouring
village in whose land this district was included.  For, in
commemoration of this wonderful planting, the kings of Bohemia granted
a charter to this community, that they should never be obliged to
contribute more in the way of taxes than one pint of hazel-nuts.  This
important privilege, according to report, their descendants enjoy to
the present day.

Although the horse, which now bore the bridegroom to his fair owner,
seemed to outstrip the winds, Premislas made him sometimes feel the
golden spurs to accelerate him still more.  The speed of the courser,
swift as it was, did not appear to him more so than the pace of a
tortoise, so anxious was he to look once more on the face of the fair
Libussa, whose form, though seven years had elapsed, still floated
before him fresh and charming.  He now looked forward, not to gaze
vainly upon her, as upon a rare anemone in the varied garden of a
florist, but to a happy union of victorious love.  He thought only of
the myrtle crown, which, in the estimation of lovers, stands far above
the crown of kings, and if he had weighed dignity and love one against
the other, the land of Bohemia without the Lady Libussa would have
kicked the beam like a clipped ducat in a money-changer’s balance.

The sun was just setting when the new prince was led in triumph into
Vizegrad.  The Lady Libussa was in her garden, where she had filled a
little basket with ripe plums, when the arrival of her future husband
was announced.  She approached modestly with all the maidens of her
court, received him as a bridegroom bestowed upon her by the gods, and
concealed the choice of her heart by an apparent resignation to the
will of the invisible powers.  The eyes of all the court were directed
with great curiosity towards the newcomer, but they saw nothing in him
more than a handsome slender young man.  As for his external appearance
there were several courtiers who could vie with him in their thoughts,
and who could not understand why the gods had despised the anti-chamber
and had not rather selected from themselves a rosy-cheeked champion
instead of the sun-burnt ploughman, as a husband and partner in
dominion for the young princess.  With Prince Wladomir and the knight
Mizisla it was especially obvious that they gave up their claims
unwillingly.  Hence it was now the care of the princess to justify the
work of the gods, and to declare that Squire Premislas made amends for
his deficiency on the score of brilliant extraction by his intellect
and acuteness.  She had caused a noble meal to be prepared, not in the
least inferior to that with which the hospitable Queen Dido formerly
entertained the pious Eneas.  After the cup of welcome had passed
readily from mouth to mouth, the gifts of the joy-bestirring Bacchus
had inspired cheerfulness and good humour, and part of the night had
already past in jest and pastime, she suggested a game at riddles, and
because the divination of things concealed was her peculiar forte, she
resolved the riddles that were proposed to the satisfaction of all
present.

When it was her turn to propose, she called Prince Wladomir, the Knight
Mizisla, and Squire Premislas to her, and said: “Now, my friends, set
about solving a riddle, which I will propose, that it may be apparent
which is the wisest and cleverest among you.  I have destined for each
of you, out of this basket, a gift of the plums, which I have picked in
my garden.  One of you shall have half of them and one more, the second
shall again have half and one more, and the third shall again have half
and three more.  Supposing now that the basket is thus emptied, tell me
how many plums are in it now.”

The hasty knight, Mizisla, measured the fruit-basket with his eyes--not
the sense of the problem with his understanding--and said: “That which
can be solved by the sword I will solve readily, but thy riddles,
gracious princess, are rather too subtle for me.  Nevertheless, in
accordance with thy wishes, I will make a venture at random.  I guess
that if the plums be well counted, they will be found to amount to
three score.”

“Thou hast made a mistake, dear knight,” answered the Lady Libussa.
“If there were as many more, half as many more, and a third as many
more, as the basket contains now and five more added to that, the
number would by so much exceed three score as it is now short of it.”

Prince Wladomir calculated slowly and laboriously, as if the post of
general controller of the finances were the reward for solving the
riddle, and at last gave out five-and-forty as the value of the
renowned number.  The lady then said:

“If there were a third as many more, half as many more, and a sixth as
many more as there are now, there would then be in my basket as much
more than forty-five as there now are under that number.”

Although the very commonest hand at figures, would have deciphered the
problem without trouble; nevertheless, for a bad calculation the gift
of divination is absolutely indispensable, if he would come off with
honour, and not appear ridiculous.  Now as this gift had been
fortunately communicated to the wise Premislas, it cost him neither
ingenuity nor exertion to discover the solution of the riddle.

“Intimate associate of the heavenly powers,” he said, “whoever
undertakes to discover thy high-soaring and divine meaning, ventures to
fly after the eagle, when he hides himself in the clouds.
Nevertheless, I will follow thy secret flight as far as the eye, which
is illumined by thee, can reach.  I decide that the plums thou hast
concealed in the basket are thirty in number,--neither more nor less.”

The lady looked at him kindly and said; “Thou hast traced the
glimmering spark that lies deep in the ashes, and light gleams upon
thee out of mist and darkness; thou hast guessed my riddle.”

She then opened the basket, counted out fifteen plums into Prince
Wladomir’s hat with one more, and there remained fourteen.  Of these
she gave seven to the Knight Mizisla with one more, and six remained in
the basket.  The half of these she awarded to the wise Premislas, then
gave him the three others, and the basket was empty.  The whole court
was amazed at the arithmetical wisdom of the fair Libussa, and the
acuteness of her clever bridegroom.  No one could comprehend how human
intellect was able on the one hand to bind a common number so
enigmatically in words, and on the other to pick out such an ingenious
mystery with such perfect confidence.  The lady awarded the empty
basket to the two knights, who could not obtain her love, as a memorial
of a terminated amour.  Hence arises the custom, which exists to the
present time, of saying that a rejected lover has received a _basket_
from his mistress.[3]

When all was in readiness for the homage, and the nuptials, both these
ceremonies were celebrated with great pomp.  The Bohemian people had
now a duke, and the fair Libussa a husband, both to their heart’s
content, and what was most surprising this result was brought about by
trickery, which does not generally bear the reputation of being the
most skilful negotiator.  If one of the two parties had been deceived,
certainly it was not the sage Libussa, but the people, as indeed is
frequently the case.  The land of Bohemia had nominally a duke, but in
point of fact the government remained in a female hand as before.
Premislas was a perfect pattern of a docile obedient husband, who did
not dispute the rule of his wife, either in the household or the state.
His thoughts and wishes sympathised as perfectly with her own, as two
similarly tuned strings, of which the untouched one spontaneously
repeats the sound, which the louder one has uttered.  Libussa had not,
however, the proud, vain disposition of those ladies who wish to pass
for great matches, and are always superciliously reminding the poor
wight, whose fortune they think they have made, of his wooden shoes;
but she imitated the celebrated Queen of Palmyra, and governed by the
superiority of her talents, as Zenobia managed her good-natured
Odenatus.

The happy pair lived in the enjoyment of unchanging love, according to
the fashion of that time, when the instinct which unites hearts was as
firm and durable as the cement and mortar which renders the walls of
the old world so firm and indestructible.  Duke Premislas now became
one of the most doughty knights of his age, and the Bohemian court one
of the most brilliant in Germany.  A large number of knights and
nobles, as well as a great concourse of common people gradually
assembled from all parts of the territory.  The consequence was, that
the court-city became too narrow for the inhabitants, and therefore
Libussa called her people in office to her, and ordered them to build a
city on the spot where they should find a man who knew how to make the
wisest use of teeth at noon.  They went out and found at the appointed
time a man who was busied in sawing a block asunder.  They decided that
this industrious person made an incomparably better use of the teeth of
his saw at noon than the parasite made of the teeth in his jaws at the
table of the great, and they did not doubt that they had found the
place which the princess had appointed for the foundation of the new
city.  They therefore drew the ploughshare round the field to mark the
compass of the city wall.  On asking the working man what he intended
to make out of the piece of wood he was cutting, he answered: “Prah,”
which in the Bohemian tongue signifies the threshold of a door.
Libussa therefore called the new city Praha, that is Prague, the
well-known royal city on the Moldau in Bohemia.  The prediction of
Premislas concerning his posterity was punctually fulfilled.  His wife
became mother of three princes, two of whom died in their youth, while
the third grew to man’s estate, and from him sprung a brilliant race of
kings, who flourished on the Bohemian throne for ages.


[1] A proverbial expression in Germany for a scene of riot, on account
of the disturbances that usually took place at Polish elections.

[2] An allusion to the Emperor Joseph II.

[3] The expression “Einen Korb bekommen,” to meet with a refusal, is
familiar to every reader of German.




THE CRIMINAL FROM LOST HONOUR.

BY FRIEDRICH SCHILLER.

In the whole history of man there is no chapter more instructive for
the heart and mind than the annals of his errors.  On the occasion of
every great crime a proportionally great force was in motion.  If by
the pale light of ordinary emotions the play of the desiring faculty is
concealed, in the situation of strong passion it becomes the more
striking, the more colossal, the more audible, and the acute
investigator of humanity, who knows how much may be properly set down
to the account of the mechanism of the ordinary freedom of the will,
and how far it is allowable to reason by analogy, will be able from
this source to gather much fresh experience for his psychology, and to
render it applicable to moral life.

The human heart is something so uniform and at the same time so
compound!  One and the same faculty or desire may play in a thousand
forms and directions, may produce a thousand contradictory phenomena,
may appear differently mingled in a thousand characters, and a thousand
dissimilar characters and actions might be spun out of one kind of
inclination, though the particular man, about whom the question was
raised, might have no suspicion of such affinity.  If, as for the other
kingdoms of nature, a Linnæus for the human race were to arise, who
could classify according to inclinations and impulses, how great would
be the empire, when many a person whose vices are now stifled in a
narrow social sphere, and in the close confines of the law, was found
in the same order with the monster Borgia.

Considered from this point of view, the usual mode of treating history
is open to much objection, and herein, I think, lies the difficulty,
owing to which the study of history has always been so unfruitful for
civil life.  Between the vehement emotions of the man in action, and
the quiet mind of the reader, to whom the action is presented, there is
such a repelling contrast, such a wide interval, that it is difficult,
nay, impossible for the latter, even to suspect a connexion.  A gap
remains between the subject of the history and the reader which cuts
off all possibility of comparison or application, and which, instead of
awakening that wholesome alarm, that warns too secure health, merely
calls forth the shake of the head denoting suspicion.  We regard the
unhappy person, who was still a man as much as ourselves, both when he
committed the act and when he atoned for it, as a creature of another
species, whose blood flows differently from our own, and whose will
does not obey the same regulations as our own.  His fate teaches us but
little, as sympathy is only founded on an obscure consciousness of
similar peril, and we are far removed even from the bare suspicion of
such similarity.  The relation being lost, instruction is lost with it,
and history, instead of being a school of cultivation, must rest
content with the humble merit of having satisfied our curiosity.  If it
is to become any thing more and attain its great purpose, it must
choose one of these two plans: either the reader must become as warm as
the hero, or the hero must become as cold as the reader.

I am aware that many of the best historians, both of ancient and modern
times, have adhered to the first method, and have gained the heart of
their reader, by a style which carries him along with the subject.  But
this is an usurpation on the part of the author, and an infringement on
the republican freedom of the reading public, which is itself entitled
to sit in judgment: it is at the same time a violation of the law of
boundaries, since this method belongs exclusively and properly to the
orator and the poet.  The last method is alone open to the historian.

The hero then must be as cold as the reader or--what comes to the same
thing--we must become acquainted with him before he begins to act; we
must see him not only perform, but will his action.  His thoughts
concern us infinitely more than his deeds, and the sources of his
thoughts still more than the consequences of his deeds.  The soil of
Vesuvius has been explored to discover the origin of its eruption; and
why is less attention paid to a moral than to a physical phenomenon?
Why do we not equally regard the nature and situation of the things
which surround a certain man, until the tinder collected within him
takes fire?  The dreamer, who loves the wonderful is charmed by the
singularity and wonder of such a phenomenon; but the friend of truth
seeks a mother for these lost children.  He seeks her in the
unalterable structure of the human soul, and in the variable conditions
by which it is influenced from without, and by searching both these he
is sure to find her.  He is now no more astonished to see the poisonous
hemlock thriving in that bed, in every other part of which wholesome
herbs are growing, to find wisdom and folly, virtue and vice, together
in the same cradle.

Not to mention any of the advantages which psychology derives from such
a method of treating history, this method has alone the preference,
because it uproots the cruel scorn and proud security with which erect
and untempted virtue commonly looks down upon the fallen, because it
diffuses the mild spirit of toleration, without which no fugitive can
return, no reconciliation between the law and its offender is possible,
no infected member of society can escape utter mortification.

Had the criminal of whom I am now about to speak a right to appeal to
that spirit of toleration?  Was he really lost for the body of the
state, without a possibility of redemption?  I will not anticipate the
reader’s verdict.  Our leniency will no more avail him, since he
perished by the hand of the executioner, but the dissection of his
crime will perhaps instruct humanity, and possibly instruct justice
also.

Christian Wolf was the son of an innkeeper in a provincial town (the
name of which must be concealed for reasons which will be obvious in
the sequel), and, his father being dead, he assisted his mother in the
business till his twentieth year.  The business was bad, and Wolf had
many an idle hour.  Even from his school days he was notorious as a
loose kind of fellow.  Grown up girls complained of his audacity, and
the lads of the town reverenced his inventive powers.  Nature had
neglected his person.  A little insignificant figure, curly hair of an
unpleasant blackness, a flat nose, and a swollen upper lip, which had
been moreover put out of its place by the kick of a horse, gave a
repulsiveness to his appearance, which scared all the women away from
him, and afforded abundant material for the wit of his comrades.

Obstinately did he endeavour to gain what had been denied him; because
he was unpleasant he determined to please.  He was sensual, and
persuaded himself that he was in love.  The girl whom he chose
ill-treated him; he had reason to fear his rivals were more fortunate;
nevertheless the girl was poor.  A heart that was closed to his
endearments might possibly open to his presents, but he himself was
oppressed by want, and his vain endeavour to produce an effective
exterior absorbed the small gains of his miserable business.  Too
indolent and too ignorant to restore his dilapidated affairs by
speculation, too proud, and also too delicate to exchange the condition
of master which he had hitherto held, for that of peasant, he saw but
one path before him--a path which thousands before and after him have
taken with better success--that of stealing honestly.  His native town
bordered on a wood, which belonged to the sovereign; he turned poacher,
and the profits of his depredations were faithfully placed in the hands
of his mistress.

Among the lovers of Johanna was Robert, a huntsman in the service of
the forester.  This man soon perceived the advantage which had been
gained over him by the liberality of his rival, and filled with envy,
he investigated the source of this change.  He appeared more frequently
at the Sun--this was the sign of the inn--and his watchful eye,
sharpened by envy and jealousy, soon showed him whence the money had
been procured.  A short time before, a severe edict had been revived
against poachers, condemning transgressors to the house of correction.
Robert was unwearied in observing the secret paths of his rival, and
finally succeeded in catching the unwary man in the very fact.  Wolf
was apprehended, and it was only by the sacrifice of all his property,
that he was able--and then with difficulty--to escape the awarded
punishment by a fine.

Robert triumphed.  His rival was beaten out of the field, and Johanna’s
favour was at an end, now he was a beggar.  Wolf knew his enemy, and
this enemy was the happy possessor of Johanna.  An oppressive feeling
of want was combined with offended pride, necessity and jealousy raged
together against his sensitiveness, hunger drove him out upon the wide
world, revenge and passion held him fast.  For a second time he turned
poacher, but Robert’s redoubled vigilance was again too much for him.
Now he experienced all the severity of the law, for he had nothing more
to give, and in a few weeks he was consigned to the house of correction
attached to the capital.

This year of punishment had passed, absence had increased his passion,
and his stubbornness had become greater under the weight of his
misfortune.  Scarcely had he regained his freedom than he hastened to
the place of his birth to show himself to his Johanna.  He appeared,
and all shunned him.  Pressing necessity at last subdued his pride, and
overcame his sense of personal weakness,--he offered himself to the
opulent of the place, as willing to serve for daily hire.  The farmer
shrugged his shoulders as he saw the weakly looking creature, and the
stout bony frame of a rival applicant was decisive against him in the
mind of the unfeeling patron.  He made one effort more.  One office was
still left--the very last post of an honest name.  He applied for the
vacant place of herdsman of the town, but the peasant would not trust
his pigs to a scape-grace.  Frustrated in every effort, rejected at
every place, he became a poacher for the third time, and for a third
time had the misfortune of falling into the hands of his watchful enemy.

The double relapse had increased the magnitude of the offence.  The
judges looked into the book of laws, but not into the criminal’s state
of mind.  The decree against poachers required a solemn and exemplary
satisfaction; and Wolf was condemned to work for three years in the
fortification, with the mark of the gallows branded on his back.

This period also had elapsed, and he quitted the fortification, a very
different man from the man he was when he entered it.  Here began a new
epoch in his life.  Let us hear him speak himself, as he afterwards
confessed to his spiritual adviser, and before the court.  “I entered
the fortification,” he said, “as an erring man, and I left it--a
villain.  I had still possessed something in the world which was dear
to me, and my pride had bowed down under shame.  When I was brought to
the fortification, I was confined with three and twenty prisoners, two
of whom were murderers, while all the rest were notorious thieves and
vagabonds.  They scoffed at me, when I spoke of God, and encouraged me
to utter all sorts of blasphemies against the Redeemer.  Obscene songs
were sung in my presence, which, graceless fellow as I was, I could not
hear without disgust and horror; and what I saw done, was still more
revolting to my sense of decency.  There was not a day in which some
career of shame was not repeated, in which some evil project was not
hatched.  At first I shunned these people, and avoided their discourse
as much as possible; but I wanted the sympathy of some fellow creature,
and the barbarity of my keepers had even denied me my dog.  The labour
was hard and oppressive, my body weak; I wanted assistance, and, if I
must speak out, I wanted compassion also, and this I was forced to
purchase with the last remains of my conscience.  Thus did I ultimately
become inured to what was most detestable, and in the quarter of the
year I had surpassed my instructors.

“I now thirsted after the day of liberty, as I thirsted after revenge.
All men had offended me, for all were better and happier than me.  I
considered myself the martyr of natural rights, the victim of the law.
Grinding my teeth, I rubbed my chains, when the sun rose behind the
mountain on which the fortification stood;--a wide prospect is a
two-fold hell for a prisoner.  The free breeze that whistled through
the loop-holes of my tower, the swallow that perched on the iron bar of
my grating, seemed to insult me with their liberty, and made my
confinement the more hideous.  Then I swore a fierce, unconquerable
hate against all that resembles man, and faithfully have I kept my oath.

“My first thought, as soon as I was free, was my native town.  Little
as I had to hope there for my future support, much was promised to my
hunger for revenge.  My heart beat more wildly as I saw the
church-steeple rise in the distance from the wood.  It was no more that
heartfelt comfort, which I felt, when first I returned thither.  The
remembrance of all the afflictions, all the persecutions which I had
suffered then roused me at once from a frightful torpor; every wound
bled afresh, every scar was opened.  I quickened my steps, for I walked
in the thought of terrifying my enemy by my sudden appearance, and I
now thirsted as much after new humiliation as I had before trembled at
it.

“The bells were ringing for vespers, while I stood in the middle of the
market.  The congregation was thronging to church.  I was now
recognised, and every one who came near me shyly shrank back.  I was
always very fond of little children, and even now, by an involuntary
impulse, I gave a groschen to a boy who was skipping by me.  The boy
stared at me for a moment, and then flung the groschen into my face.
Had my blood been cooler I should have remembered that the beard, which
I had brought with me from the fortification, disfigured my face in the
most frightful manner, but my bad heart had infected my reason.  Tears,
such as I had never shed, ran down my cheeks.

“‘The boy does not know who I am, nor whence I come,’ I now said to
myself, half aloud, ‘and yet he shuns me like some noxious beast.  Have
I any mark on my forehead, or have I ceased to look like a man because
I can no longer love one?’  The contempt of this boy wounded me more
bitterly than three years’ service in the galleys, for I had done him a
kindness, and could not charge him with personal hatred.

“I sat down in a timber-yard opposite the church.  What I actually
desired I do not know, but this I know, that I rose with indignation;
when, of all my acquaintance that passed, not one would give me a
greeting.  Deeply offended, I left the spot to seek a lodging, when
just as I was turning the corner of a street I ran against my Johanna.
‘The host of the Sun!’ she cried aloud, and made a movement to embrace
me.  ‘Thou returned, dear host of the Sun--God be praised!’  Her attire
bespoke misery and hunger, her aspect denoted the abandoned condition
to which she had sunk.  I quickly surmised what had happened; some of
the prince’s dragoons who had met me, made me guess that there was a
garrison in the town.  ‘Soldier’s wench!’ cried I, and laughing, I
turned my back upon her.  I felt comforted that in the rank of living
beings there was still one creature below me.  I had never loved her.

“My mother was dead, my creditors had paid themselves with my small
house.  I had lost every body and every thing.  All the world shunned
me as though I were venomous, but I had at last forgotten shame.
Before, I had retired from the sight of men because contempt was
unendurable.  Now I obtruded myself upon them, and felt delight in
scaring them.  I was easy because I had nothing more to lose, and
nothing more to guard.  I no more needed any good quality, because none
believed I could have any.

“The whole world lay open before me, and in some strange province I
might have passed for an honest man, but I had lost the spirit even to
appear one.  Despair and shame had at last forced this mood upon me.
It was the last refuge that was left me, to learn to do without honour,
because I had no longer a claim to it.  Had my pride and vanity
survived my degradation, I must have destroyed myself.

“What I had actually resolved upon was yet unknown even to myself.  I
had to be sure a dark remembrance that I wished to do something bad.  I
wished to merit my fate.  The laws, I thought, were beneficial to the
world, and therefore I embraced the determination of violating them.
Formerly I had sinned from necessity and levity, now it was from free
choice, and for my own pleasure.

“My first plan was to continue my poaching.  Hunting altogether had
gradually become a passion with me, and besides I was forced to live
some way.  But this was not all; I was tickled at the thought of
scorning the princely edict, and of injuring my sovereign to the utmost
of my power.  I no more feared apprehension, for I had a bullet ready
for my discoverer, and I knew that I should not miss my man.  I killed
all the game that came across me, a small quantity of which I sold on
the border, but the greater part I left to rot.  I lived miserably,
that I might be able to afford powder and ball.  My devastations in the
great hunt were notorious, but suspicion no longer touched me.  My
aspect dissipated it: my name was forgotten.

“This kind of life lasted for several months.  One morning I had, as
usual rambled through the wood, to follow the track of a deer.  I had
wearied myself for two hours in vain, and was already beginning to give
up my prey as lost, when I suddenly discovered it within gun-shot.  I
was about to take aim and fire, when I was suddenly startled by the
appearance of a hat which lay on the ground a few paces before me.  I
looked closer, and discovered the huntsman Robert, who from behind the
thick trunk of an oak tree was levelling his gun at the very animal
which I had designed to shoot.  At this sight a deadly coldness passed
through my bones.  Here was the man whom I detested more than any
living thing, and this man within reach of my bullet.  At the moment I
felt as if the whole world depended on the firing of my gun, and the
hatred of my whole life seemed concentrated in the tip of the finger
that was to give the fatal pressure to the trigger.  An invisible fatal
hand was suspended over me, the index of my destiny pointed irrevocably
to this black minute.  My arm trembled, when I allowed my gun the fatal
choice, my teeth chattered as in an ague fit, and my breath, with a
suffocating sensation, was confined in my lungs.  For the duration of
one minute did the barrel of the gun waver uncertainly between the man
and the deer, one minute--and one more--and yet one more.  It was a
doubtful and obstinate contest between revenge and conscience, but
revenge gained the victory, and the huntsman lay dead on the ground.

“My gun fell as it had been fired.  ‘Murderer,’ I stammered out
slowly--the wood was as silent as a churchyard, and I could hear
plainly that I said ‘murderer.’  When I drew nearer, the man had died.
Long did I stand speechless before the corse, when a shrill burst of
laughter came as a relief.  ‘Will you keep counsel now, friend?’ said
I, and boldly stepping up to the murdered man, I turned round his face
towards myself.  His eyes were wide open.  I was serious, and again
became suddenly still.  An extraordinary feeling took possession of me.

“Hitherto I had sinned on account of my disgrace, but now something had
happened for which I had not yet atoned.  An hour before, I think, no
man could have persuaded me that there was any thing under heaven worse
than myself, whereas, now I began to suspect that my condition an hour
before was, perhaps, an enviable one.

“God’s judgments did not occur to me,--but I had a dim recollection of
sword and cord, and the execution of an infanticide which I saw while a
school-boy.  There was something peculiarly terrible to me in the
thought that my life from this moment had become forfeit.  More I do
not recollect.  My first wish was that Robert was still living.  I
endeavoured forcibly to recall to my mind all the wrong that the
deceased had done me during his life,--but strange to say, my memory
seemed to have perished.  I could recall nothing of that, which a
quarter of an hour before had impelled me to madness.  I did not
understand how I had been induced to commit this murder.

“I was yet standing by the corpse.  The crack of some whips, and the
noise of carts, which were passing through the wood, brought me to my
senses.  The deed had been committed scarcely a quarter of a mile from
the high road, and I was forced to think of my own safety.

“Unintentionally I strayed deeper into the wood.  On the way, it struck
me that the deceased once possessed a watch.  I needed money to reach
the border--and yet I lacked courage to return to the spot, where the
dead man lay.  A thought of the devil and of an omnipotence of the
deity began to terrify me.  However, I summoned all my audacity, and
resolved to set all hell at defiance.  I returned to the place.  I
found what I had expected, and also money amounting to rather more than
a dollar in a green purse.  Just as I was about to put them both up, I
suddenly stopped, and began to reflect.  It was no fit of shame, nor
was it the fear of increasing my crime by plunder.  I believe it was
out of a spirit of defiance that I flung away the watch, and only kept
half the money.  I wished to be taken for a personal enemy of the
murdered man, but not for one who had robbed him.

“I now fled deeper into the wood, which I knew extended four German
miles to the north, and there touched the border of the country.  Till
noon I ran breathless.  The rapidity of my flight had dissipated the
anguish of my conscience, but the return of that anguish was frightful,
when my strength more and more declined.  A thousand hideous forms
passed before me, and struck into my heart, like sharp knives.  Between
a life filled with an increasing terror of death, and a violent end,
the awful choice was now left me--and choose I must.  I had not the
heart to quit the world by self-destruction, and I was terrified at the
prospect of remaining in it.  Fixed as it were between the certain
torments of life, and the uncertain terrors of eternity--unable to live
or to die--I passed the sixth hour of my flight--an hour brimful of
horrors, such as no living man could narrate.

“Slowly--absorbed in myself, and with my hat unconsciously slouched
over my face, as if I wished to conceal myself from the eye of
inanimate nature,--I had insensibly followed a narrow path, which led
me through the deepest part of the thicket--when suddenly a rough
imperious voice called to me, ‘stop.’  The voice was quite close; my
abstraction and the slouched hat had prevented me from looking round.
I raised my eyes and saw a wild man, armed with a great knotted club,
approaching me.  His figure was almost gigantic--at least my first
surprise made me think so--and the colour of his skin was a yellow
mulatto sort of black, with which the whiteness of a squinting eye
stood in terrible contrast.  Instead of a girdle he had a thick rope
wound twice round a green woollen coat, in which were stuck a broad
knife and a pistol.  The cry was repeated, and a powerful arm held me
fast.  The sound of a man had frightened me, but the aspect of a
villain gave me new heart.  In my present situation, I had cause to
tremble before every honest man, but none to tremble before a robber.

“‘Who is there?’ said the apparition.

“‘One like yourself,’ was my answer, ‘if you really correspond to your
appearance.’

“‘That is not the way out?  What are you looking for here?’

“‘What is that to you?’ retorted I, insolently.

“The man considered me twice from top to toe.  It seemed as though he
wished to compare my figure with his own, and my answer with my figure.
‘You speak as rudely as a beggar,’ he said at last.

“‘Perhaps so.  I was a beggar yesterday.’

“The man laughed.  ‘One could swear you did not want to pass for any
thing better now.’

“‘For something worse then.’--I wished to proceed.

“‘Softly friend, why in such a hurry?  What time have you to lose?’

“I reflected for a moment.  How the words came to my tongue I do not
know.  ‘Life is short,’ said I, slowly, ‘and hell lasts for ever!’

“He stared at me.  ‘May I be d--d,’ he said at last, ‘if thou hast not
brushed close by a gallows.’

“‘Very possibly.  So good bye for the present, comrade!’

“‘_Topp_, comrade!’ he cried, as he drew a tin flask out of his
hunting-pouch, took a good draught from it, and handed it to me.
Flight and anguish had exhausted my energies, and nothing had passed my
lips the whole day.  I had already feared that I should have sunk from
exhaustion in this wood, where no refreshment was to be expected for
three miles round.  Judge how joyfully I responded to this health.
With the animating draught new strength flowed into my bones, new
courage into my heart, and I felt hope and the love of life.  I began
to think that perhaps I was not quite wretched; so much at least was
the welcome beverage all to do.  Yes, I must even confess that my
situation approached that of happiness, for at last, after a thousand
vain hopes, I had found a creature who seemed similar to myself.  In
the condition to which I had fallen I should have drank good fellowship
with the spirit of evil himself for the sake of having a confidant.

“The man had stretched himself out on the grass.  I did the same.

“‘Your liquor has done me good,’ said I.  ‘We must become acquainted.’

“He struck fire to light his pipe.

“‘Have you carried on this business long?’

“He looked hard at me.  ‘What do you mean by that?’

“‘Has this often been stained with blood?’  I drew the knife from his
girdle.

“‘Who are you?’ said he, in a fearful tone, and he laid down his pipe.

“‘A murderer like you, but only a beginner.’

“The man stared at me, and took up his pipe again.  ‘Do you reside
here?’ he said at last.

“‘Three miles off.  I am the host of the Sun at ----, of whom perhaps
you have heard.’

“The man sprung up as if possessed.  ‘The poacher Wolf,’ he cried
hastily.

“‘The same!’

“‘Welcome, comrade, welcome!’ cried he, and shook my hands violently.
‘That is brave, that I have you at last, mine host of the Sun.  Day and
night have I been thinking how to get you.  I know you well.  I know
all.  I have reckoned on you long ago.’

“‘Reckoned on me!  For what?’

“‘The whole country round is full of you.  You have enemies!  A bailiff
has oppressed you, Wolf!  They have ruined you, and the wrongs you have
suffered cry aloud to Heaven.’

“The man became warm.  ‘Because you have shot a few hogs, which the
prince feeds in our fields they have dragged you about for years in the
house of correction and the fortification, they have robbed you of your
house and business and made you a beggar.  Has it come to this,
brother, that a man is worth no more than a hare?  Are we not better
than brutes of the field?  And a fellow like you could suffer that?’

“‘Could I alter it?’

“‘That we shall see.  But tell me, whence do you come, and what do you
purpose?’

“I began to tell him all my history.  The man, without waiting till I
had finished it, sprung up with joyous impatience, and drew me after
him.  ‘Come, brother host of the Sun,’ said he, ‘now you are ripe, now
I have you when I wanted you.  I shall get honour by you.  Follow me.’

“‘Where will you take me?’

“‘Do not stop to ask, but follow.’  He then forcibly dragged me along.

“We had proceeded about a quarter of a mile.  The wood became more and
more steep, pathless and wild, neither of us uttered a word, until at
last my leader’s whistle startled me out of my meditations.  I raised
my eyes, we were standing on the edge of a steep rock, which was bowed
down into a deep cleft.  A second whistle answered from the interior
hollow of the rock, and a ladder slowly rose from the abyss, as of its
own accord.  My conductor descended first, and told me to wait till he
returned.  ‘I must first chain up my dog,’ said he, ‘you are strange
here, and the beast would tear you to pieces.’

“I now stood alone before the abyss, and well I knew that I was alone.
The improvidence of my leader did not escape my attention.  It only
required a hearty resolution to draw up the ladder; then I should have
been free, and my flight would have been secure.  I confess that I
perceived that.  I looked down into the abyss, which was now to receive
me, and it dimly reminded me of the descent into hell, from which there
is no redemption.  I began to shudder at the career I was about to
enter; only a rapid flight could save me.  I resolved on this flight; I
had already stretched my hand towards the ladder, but at once there was
a thunder in my ears, a noise about me like the scornful laughter of
hell, and it seemed to say: ‘What can a murderer risk?’  My arm fell
back as if paralysed.  I had reckoned rightly, the time for repentance
had passed, the murder I had committed lay towering up behind me like a
rock, and cut off my retreat for ever.  At the same time my conductor
re-appeared and told me I might come.  There was now no longer any
choice.  I clambered down.

“We had proceeded some steps, beneath the wall of the rock, when the
ground became wider and some huts were visible.  In the midst of these
was a round grass plat, on which about eighteen or twenty persons were
lying round a charcoal fire.  ‘Here comrades,’ said my conductor,
placing me in the centre of the circle.  ‘Our host of the Sun!  Bid him
welcome!’

“‘The host of the Sun!’ cried all at once, and they all--men and
women--rose and pressed round me.  Shall I confess it.  The joy was
hearty and unaffected, confidence, nay, esteem appeared in every face;
one pressed my hand, another familiarly shook me by my coat--the whole
scene resembled that at the re-appearance of an old and valued friend.
My arrival had interrupted the feast, which they had just begun.  They
now continued it, and invited me to pledge the welcome.  Game of all
kinds formed the meal, and the wine flask passed without flagging from
hand to hand.  Good cheer and unity seemed to animate the entire band,
and the contest among them all was who should show the most extravagant
delight at my arrival.

“They had seated me between two women, which was the post of honour at
the table.  I expected to find the refuse of their sex, but how great
was my astonishment when I discovered among this infamous troop the
most beautiful female forms that my eyes had ever beheld.  Margaret,
the eldest and most beautiful of the two, was called Miss, and could
scarcely have been five-and-twenty.  Her words were very bold, and her
gestures still more so.  Maria, the younger, was married, but she had
fled from a husband, who had ill-used her.  She was more elegant, but
pale and delicate-looking, and less striking to the eye than her fiery
neighbour.  Both women strove hard to excite my passion.  The beautiful
Margaret endeavoured to overcome my bashfulness by loose jests, but the
whole woman was repulsive to me, and the bashful Maria had gained my
heart for ever.

“‘You see, brother host of the Sun,’ began the man who had brought me,
‘You see how we live together, and every day is like this one.  Is it
not true, comrades?’

“‘Every day like this!’ repeated the whole band.

“‘If, then, you can resolve to find pleasure in our mode of life,
strike a bargain and be our leader.  I have held that post hitherto,
but I will give it up to you.  Are you content, comrades.’

“A joyful ‘Yes!’ was responded from every throat.

“My head was on fire, my brain was turned, and my blood was boiling
with wine and passion.  The world had cast me out as infected with the
plague, but here I found a brotherly reception, honour, and comfort.
Whatever choice I made death awaited me, but here I could at least sell
my life for a higher price.  Sensuality was my most violent tendency;
hitherto the other sex had only shown me contempt, but here I should
find favour and boundless enjoyment.  My determination cost me but
little.  ‘I stay with you, comrades,’ cried I, loudly and resolutely,
and walked into the midst of the band.  ‘I remain with you,’ I cried
again, ‘if you will give me my beautiful neighbour.’  All agreed to
grant my request, and I was the declared possessor of a harlot, and
owner of a band of robbers.”

      *      *      *      *      *

The following part of the history I entirely pass over; the merely
detestable has nothing instructive for the reader.  An unfortunate man
who had sunk to this depth, would at last necessarily allow himself all
that raises the indignation of mankind.  He did not, however, commit
another murder, as he himself confessed upon the rack.

The fame of this man shortly spread over the entire province.  The high
roads became unsafe; the citizens were rendered uneasy by the
burglaries committed in the night; the name of the “Host of the Sun”
became the terror of the country-people, justice searched for him, and
a reward was offered for his head.  He was fortunate enough to
frustrate all attempts made against his liberty, and cunning enough to
turn to the account of his safety the superstition of the wonder-loving
peasantry.  His comrades had to spread the report that he had made a
compact with the devil, and understood witchcraft.  The district in
which he played his part, belonged less at that time than now to the
enlightened part of Germany; the reports were believed, and his person
was secure.  No one showed a desire to attack the dangerous fellow who
had the devil at his service.

He had already for a year followed his melancholy profession, when it
began to grow insupportable.  The band at whose head he stood, did not
fulfil his brilliant expectations.  A seductive exterior had dazzled
him amid the fumes of the wine; now he saw with horror how frightfully
he had been deceived.  Hunger and want took the place of that
superfluity by which his senses had been lulled; very often he had to
risk his life on a meal, which was scarcely sufficient to keep him from
starvation.  The phantom of that brotherly concord vanished; envy,
suspicion, and jealousy raged among this abandoned crew.  Justice had
offered a reward to any one who should deliver him up alive, with a
solemn pardon if he were an accomplice--a powerful temptation for the
dregs of the earth!  The unhappy man knew his peril.  The honesty of
those who betrayed God and man, was a bad security for his life.  From
this moment sleep was gone; a deadly and eternal anguish preyed on his
repose; the hideous spectre of suspicion rattled behind him, wherever
he fled, tortured him when he was awake, lay down by him when he went
to sleep, and scared him with horrible visions.  His conscience, which
had been for some time dumb, now recovered its speech, and the adder of
remorse, which had slept, now awoke amid the general storm of his
bosom.  All his hatred was now diverted from mankind, and turned its
frightful edge against himself.  He now forgave all nature, and found
none but himself to execrate.

Vice had completed its instruction of this unhappy being; his naturally
good sense at last overcame the mournful delusion.  Now he felt how low
he had fallen, calm melancholy took the place of grinding despair.
With tears he wished the past were recalled, for now he felt certain
that he could go through it differently.  He began to hope that he
might be allowed to become honest, because he felt that he could be so.
At the highest point of his depravity, he was perhaps nearer to
goodness than before his first fault.

About the same time, the seven years’ war had broken out, and
recruiting was going on with vigour.  This circumstance inspired the
unhappy man with hope, and he wrote a letter to his sovereign, an
extract of which I insert:

“If your princely favour feels no repugnance towards descending to me,
if criminals of my class are not beyond the sphere of your mercy, grant
me a hearing, I beg of your most serene highness!  I am a murderer and
a robber; the law condemns me to death, the tribunals are in search of
me, and I offer myself to serve as a volunteer.  But at the same time,
I bring a singular request before your throne.  I detest my life, and
do not fear death, but it is terrible for me to die without having
lived.  I would live to make reparation for a portion of the past, I
would live to make some atonement to the state, which I have offended.
My execution will be an example to the world, but no compensation for
my deeds.  I detest vice, and have a burning desire for integrity and
virtue.  I have shown the talents for becoming formidable to my
country--I hope I have some left to be of service to it.

“I know that I am asking something which is unprecedented.  My life is
forfeit, and it is not for me to negotiate with justice.  But I do not
appear in bonds and fetters before you--I am still free--and fear on my
part has the smallest share in my request.

“It is for mercy that I ask.  If I had a claim to justice, I should no
longer venture to assert it.  But of one thing I may remind my judge.
The epoch of my crimes begins with the judgment that for ever deprived
me of honour.  Had fairness been less denied me on that occasion, I
should not now, perhaps, have stood in need of mercy.

“Show mercy, my prince, instead of justice.  If it is in your princely
power to move the law in my favour, then grant me my life.  From
henceforth it shall be devoted to your service.  If you can do so, let
me learn your gracious will from the public journals, and I will appear
in the metropolis on your word as a prince.  If you have resolved
otherwise, let justice do her part, I must do mine.”

This petition remained unanswered, and so did a second, and a third, in
which the applicant asked for a trooper’s place in the prince’s
service.  His hopes for a pardon were utterly extinguished, so he
resolved to quit the country, and to die as a brave soldier in the
service of the King of Prussia.

He succeeded in escaping from his land, and began his journey.  The
road led him through a little provincial town, where he wished to pass
the night.  A short time before, mandates of exceeding strictness had
been published throughout the country, requiring a severe examination
of travellers, because the sovereign, a prince of the empire, had taken
part in the war.  The toll-collector (_Thorschreiber_) of this little
town had just received a mandate, and he was sitting on a bench before
the toll-bar, when the “Host of the Sun” came up.  The appearance of
this man had in it something comical, and at the same time wild and
terrible.  The lean pony which he rode, and the grotesque choice of his
attire, in which his taste had probably been less consulted than the
chronology of his thefts, contrasted singularly enough with a face over
which so many raging passions were spread, like mangled corpses on a
field of battle.  The collector was struck by the sight of this strange
wanderer.  He had grown grey at the toll-bar, and by attending to his
office for forty years had become an infallible physiognomist of all
the vagabonds about.  The falcon-glance of this investigator did not
miss its man on this occasion.  He at once fastened the town-gate, and
asked the rider for his passport while he secured his bridle.  Wolf was
prepared for chances of this kind, and actually had with him a
passport, which he had taken shortly before while plundering a
merchant.  This single voucher, however, did not suffice to counteract
the observation of forty years, and to move the oracle of the toll-bar
to a recantation.  He trusted his eyes more than the paper, and Wolf
was obliged to follow him to the office of the bailiff.

The superior of the office examined the passport and declared it
correct.  He was an ardent lover of news, and it was his delight to
chatter over the newspaper by his bottle.  The passport told him that
the bearer had come straight from those foreign countries, where the
theatre of the war was situated.  He hoped to get private intelligence
from the stranger, and sent back a secretary with the passport to
invite him to partake of a bottle of wine.

In the meanwhile the “Host of the Sun” was standing in front of the
office, and the whimsical spectacle had assembled the rabble of the
town in throngs.  The people whispered into one another’s ears, pointed
at the horse and rider, till at last the insolence of the mob increased
to a loud tumult.  The horse, at which every one pointed, was unluckily
a stolen one, and Wolf fancied that it had been described in placards
and was recognised.  The unexpected hospitality of the superior
confirmed his suspicion.  He now considered it certain that the falsity
of his passport was discovered, and that the invitation was only a
snare to catch him alive and without resistance.  His bad conscience
besotted him, so he clapped spurs to his horse and rode off without
giving a reply.

This sudden flight was the signal for an uproar.

“A thief!” cried all; and off they flew after him.  To the rider it was
a matter of life and death; he had already the start, his followers
panted breathlessly, and he seemed to be on the point of escape.  But a
heavy hand pressed invisibly towards him, the watch of his destiny had
run down, the inexorable Nemesis detained her debtor.  The street to
which he trusted had no outlet, and he was forced to turn back towards
his persecutors.

The noise of this event had in the meanwhile set the whole town in an
uproar; throng pressed on throng, all the streets were lined, and a
host of enemies were marching towards him.  He showed a pistol, the mob
receded, and he would have made a way through the crowd by force.  “A
shot from this,” said he, “for the mad fool who detains me.”  A general
pause was dictated by fear, when at last, a bold journeyman blacksmith
darted on his arm from behind, caught the finger with which the insane
man was about to fire, and forced it out of joint.  The pistol fell,
the disarmed man was pulled from his horse, and dragged to the office
in triumph.

“Who are you?” asked the judge in a somewhat brutal tone.

“A man who is resolved to answer no question until it is put more
courteously.”

“Who are you?”[1]

“That which I represented myself to be.  I have travelled all through
Germany, and never found impudence at home, anywhere but here.”

“Your speedy flight renders you very suspicious.  Why did you fly?”

“Because I was tired of being the laughing-stock of your rabble.”

“You threatened to fire.”

“My pistol was not loaded.”

The weapon was examined, and, true enough, it contained no bullet.

“Why did you secretly carry arms?”

“Because I have with me articles of value, and because I have been
warned against a certain ‘Host of the Sun,’ who is said to be roving
about these parts.”

“Your replies argue much for your audacity, but little for the goodness
of your cause.  I will give you till to-morrow to discover the truth to
me.”

“I shall abide by what I have already said.”

“Let him be conducted to the tower.”

“To the tower?  I hope, Herr Superior, that there is still justice in
this country.  I shall require satisfaction.”

“I will give it you as soon as you are acquitted.”

The next morning the superior reflected that the stranger might be
innocent after all; a dictatorial address could effect nothing with his
obstinacy, and it might, perhaps, be better to treat him with respect
and moderation.  He collected the jury of the place, and had the
prisoner brought forward.

“Forgive me for the first outbreak, sir, if I accosted you somewhat
hardly yesterday.”

“Very readily, if you treat me thus.”

“Our laws are severe, and your affair made a noise.  I cannot release
you without committing a breach of duty.  Appearance is against you,
and I wish you would say something, by which it might be refuted.”

“What, if I know nothing?”

“Then I must lay the case before the government, and you will, in the
meanwhile, remain closely confined.”

“And then?”

“Then you run the risk of being flogged over the border as a vagrant,
or, if mercy is shown, of being placed among the recruits.”

He was silent for some minutes, and appeared to be undergoing a severe
contest, then he suddenly turned to the judge.

“Can I be alone with you for a quarter of an hour?”

The jury cast ambiguous glances at one another, but withdrew at a
commanding sign from their head.

“Now, what do you want?”

“Your demeanour of yesterday, Herr Superior, would never have brought
me to a confession, for I set force at defiance.  The moderation with
which you have treated me to-day has given me confidence and respect
for you.  I think that you are an honourable man.”

“What have you to say to me?”

“I see that you are an honourable man; I have long wished for a man
like you.  Give me, I pray, your right hand.”

“To what end?”

“That head is gray and reverend.  You have been long in the world--have
felt many sorrows--is it not so?  And have become more humane.”

“Sir, to what does this tend?”

“You are now distant by only one step from eternity--soon, soon will
you need mercy from God.  You will not deny it to man.  Do you suspect
nothing?  With whom do you suppose you are speaking?”

“What do you mean?  You terrify me.”

“If you do not already suspect--write to your prince how you found me,
and that I myself of my free choice was my own betrayer--that God will
be merciful unto him as he now shows mercy unto me.  Entreat for me,
old man, and then let a tear fall on your report: I am--the ‘Host of
the Sun.’”

J. O.


[1] These questions appear the same in English, but the first in German
is “Wer seyd Ihr,” and the second “Wer sind Sie.”  According to German
usage the latter alone is courteous.




THE COLD HEART.

BY WILHELM HAUFF.

Those who travel through Swabia should always remember to cast a
passing glance into the Schwarzwald,[1] not so much for the sake of the
trees (though pines are not found everywhere in such prodigious
numbers, nor of such a surpassing height), as for the sake of the
people, who show a marked difference from all others in the
neighbourhood around.  They are taller than ordinary men,
broad-shouldered, have strong limbs, and it seems as if the bracing air
which blows through the pines in the morning, has allowed them, from
their youth upwards, to breathe more freely, and has given them a
clearer eye and a firmer, though ruder, mind than the inhabitants of
the valleys and plains.  The strong contrast they form to the people
living without the limits of the “Wald,” consists, not merely in their
bearing and stature, but also in their manners and costume.  Those of
the Schwarzwald of the Baden territory dress most handsomely; the men
allow their beards to grow about the chin just as nature gives it; and
their black jackets, wide trousers, which are plaited in small folds,
red stockings, and painted hats surrounded by a broad brim, give them a
strange, but somewhat grave and noble appearance.  Their usual
occupations are the manufacturing of glass, and the so-called Dutch
clocks, which they carry about for sale over half the globe.

Another part of the same race lives on the other side of the
Schwarzwald; but their occupations have made them contract manners and
customs quite different from those of the glass manufacturers.  Their
_Wald_ supplies their trade; felling and fashioning their pines, they
float them through the _Nagold_ into the _Neckar_, from thence down the
Rhine as far as Holland; and near the sea the _Schwarzwälder_ and their
long rafts are well known.  Stopping at every town which is situated
along the river, they wait proudly for purchasers of their beams and
planks; but the strongest and longest beams they sell at a high price
to Mynheers, who build ships of them.  Their trade has accustomed them
to a rude and roving life, their pleasure consisting in drifting down
the stream on their timber, their sorrow in wandering back again along
the shore.  Hence the difference in their costume from that of the
glass manufacturers.  They wear jackets of a dark linen cloth, braces a
hand’s breadth wide, displayed over the chest, and trousers of black
leather, from the pocket of which a brass rule sticks out as a badge of
honour; but their pride and joy are their boots, which are probably the
largest that are worn in any part of the world, for they may be drawn
two spans above the knee, and the raftsmen may walk about in water at
three feet depth without getting their feet wet.

It is but a short time ago that the belief in hobgoblins of the wood
prevailed among the inhabitants, this foolish superstition having been
eradicated only in modern times.  But the singularity about these
hobgoblins who are said to haunt the Schwarzwald, is, that they also
wear the different costumes of the people.  Thus it is affirmed of the
_Glass-mannikin_, a kind little sprite three feet and a half high, that
he never shows himself except in a painted little hat with a broad
brim, a doublet, white trousers, and red stockings; while Dutch Michel,
who haunts the other side of the forest, is said to be a gigantic,
broad-shouldered fellow wearing the dress of a raftsman; and many who
have seen him say they would not like to pay for the calves whose hides
it would require to make one pair of his boots, affirming that, without
exaggeration, a man of the middle height may stand in one of them with
his head only just peeping out.

The following strange adventure with these spirits is said to have once
befallen a young Schwarzwälder:--There lived a widow in the
Schwarzwald, whose name was Frau Barbara Munk; her husband had been a
charcoal-burner, and after his death she had by degrees prevailed upon
her boy, who was now sixteen years old, to follow his father’s trade.
Young Peter Munk, a sly fellow, submitted to sit the whole week near
the smoking stack of wood, because he had seen his father do the same;
or, black and sooty and an abomination to the people as he was, to
drive to the nearest town and sell his charcoal.  Now, a
charcoal-burner has much leisure for reflection, about himself and
others; and when Peter Munk was sitting by his stack, the dark trees
around him, as well as the deep stillness of the forest, disposed his
heart to tears, and to an unknown secret longing.  Something made him
sad, and vexed him, without his knowing exactly what it was.  At
length, however, he found out the cause of his vexation,--it was his
condition.  “A black, solitary charcoal-burner,” he said to himself;
“it is a wretched life.  How much more are the glass-manufacturers, and
the clockmakers regarded; and even the musicians, on a Sunday evening!
And when Peter Munk appears washed, clean, and dressed out in his
father’s best jacket with the silver buttons and bran new red
stockings--if then, any one walking behind him, thinks to himself, ‘I
wonder who that smart fellow is?’ admiring, all the time, my stockings
and stately gait;--if then, I say, he passes me and looks round, will
he not say, ‘Why, it is only Peter Munk, the charcoal-burner.”

The raftsmen also on the other side of the wood were an object of envy
to him.  When these giants of the forest came over in their splendid
clothes, wearing about their bodies half a hundred weight of silver,
either in buckles, buttons or chains, standing with sprawling legs and
consequential look to see the dancing, swearing in Dutch, and smoking
Cologne clay pipes a yard long, like the most noble Mynheers, then he
pictured to himself such a raftsman as the most perfect model of human
happiness.  But when these fortunate men put their hands into their
pocket, pulled out handsful of thalers and staked a Sechsbatzner piece
upon the cast of a die, throwing their five or ten florins to and fro,
he was almost mad and sneaked sorrowfully home to his hut.  Indeed he
had seen some of these gentlemen of the timber trade, on many a
holy-day evening, lose more than his poor old father had gained in the
whole year.  There were three of these men, in particular, of whom he
knew not which to admire most.  The one was a tall stout man with ruddy
face, who passed for the richest man in the neighbourhood; he was
usually called fat “Hesekiel.”  Twice every year he went with timber to
Amsterdam, and had the good luck to sell it so much dearer than the
rest that he could return home in a splendid carriage, while they had
to walk.  The second was the tallest and leanest man in the whole
_Wald_, and was usually called “the tall Schlurker;” it was his
extraordinary boldness that excited Munk’s envy, for he contradicted
people of the first importance, took up more room than four stout men,
no matter how crowded the inn might be, setting either both his elbows
upon the table, or drawing one of his long legs on the bench; yet,
notwithstanding all this, none dared to oppose him, since he had a
prodigious quantity of money.  The third was a handsome young fellow,
who being the best dancer far around, was hence called “the king of the
ball-room.”  Originally poor he had been servant to one of the timber
merchants, when all at once he became immensely rich; for which some
accounted by saying he had found a pot full of money under an old pine
tree, while others asserted that he had fished up in the Rhine, near
Bingen, a packet of gold coins with the spear which these raftsmen
sometimes throw at the fish as they go along in the river, that packet
being part of the great “Niebelungenhort,” which is sunk there.  But
however this might be, the fact of his suddenly becoming rich caused
him to be looked upon as a prince by young and old.

Often did poor Peter Munk the coal burner think of these three men,
when sitting alone in the pine forest.  All three indeed had one great
fault, which made them hated by every body: this was their insatiable
avarice, their heartlessness towards their debtors and towards the
poor, for the Schwarzwälder are naturally a kind-hearted people.
However, we all know how it is in these matters; though they were hated
for their avarice, yet they commanded respect on account of their
money, for who but they could throw away thalers, as if they could
shake them from the pines?

“This will do no longer,” said Peter one day to himself, when he felt
very melancholy, it being the morrow after a holiday when every body
had been at the inn; “if I don’t soon thrive I shall make away with
myself; Oh that I were as much looked up to and as rich as the stout
Hesekiel, or as bold and powerful as the tall Schlurker, or as renowned
as the king of the ball-room, and could like him throw thalers instead
of kreutzers to the musicians!  I wonder where the fellow gets his
money!”  Reflecting upon all the different means by which money may be
got, he could please himself with none, till at length he thought of
the tales of those people who, in times of old, had become rich through
the Dutchman Michel, or the glass-mannikin.  During his father’s
lifetime other poor people often made their calls, and then their
conversation was generally about rich persons, and the means by which
they had come by their riches; in these discourses the glass-mannikin
frequently played a conspicuous part.  Now, if Peter strained his
memory a little he could almost recall the short verse which one must
repeat near the Tannenbühl in the heart of the forest, to make the
sprite appear.  It began as follows:

  “Keeper of wealth in the forest of pine,
  Hundreds of years are surely thine:
  Thine is the tall pine’s dwelling place--”


But he might tax his memory as much as he pleased, he could remember no
more of it.  He often thought of asking some aged person what the whole
verse was.  However, a certain fear of betraying his thoughts kept him
back, and moreover he concluded that the legend of the glass-mannikin
could not be very generally known, and that but few were acquainted
with the incantation, since there were not many rich persons in the
Wald;--if it were generally known, why had not his father, and other
poor people, tried their luck?  At length, however, he one day got his
mother to talk about the mannikin, and she told him what he knew
already, as she herself remembered only the first line of the verse,
but she added, that the sprite would show himself only to those who had
been born on a Sunday, between eleven and two o’clock.  He was, she
said, quite fit for evoking him, as he was born at twelve o’clock at
noon; if he but knew the verse.

When Peter Munk heard this he was almost beside himself with joy and
desire to try the adventure.  It appeared to him enough to know part of
the verse, and to be born on a Sunday, for the glass-mannikin to show
himself.  Consequently when he one day had sold his coals, he did not
light a new stack, but put on his father’s holiday jacket, his new red
stockings, and best hat, took his blackthorn stick, five feet long into
his hand, and bade farewell to his mother, saying, “I must go to the
magistrate in the town, for we shall soon have to draw lots who is to
be soldier, and therefore I wish to impress once more upon him that you
are a widow, and I am your only son.”  His mother praised his
resolution; but he started for the Tannenbühl.  This lies on the
highest point of the Schwarzwald, and not a village or even a hut was
found, at that time, for two leagues around, for the superstitious
people believed it was haunted; they were even very unwilling to fell
timber in that part, though the pines were tall and excellent, for
often the axes of the wood-cutters had flown off the handle into their
feet, or the trees falling suddenly, had knocked the men down, and
either injured or even killed them; moreover, they could have used the
finest trees from there only for fuel, since the raftsmen never would
take a trunk from the Tannenbühl as part of a raft, there being a
tradition that both men and timber would come to harm, if they had a
tree from that spot on the water.  Hence the trees there grew so dense
and high that is was almost night at noon.  When Peter Munk approached
the place, he felt quite awe-stricken, hearing neither voice nor
footstep except his own; no axe resounded, and even the birds seemed to
shun the darkness amidst the pines.

Peter Munk had now reached the highest point of the Tannenbühl, and
stood before a pine of enormous girth, for which a Dutch ship-builder
would have given many hundred florins on the spot.  “Here,” said he,
“the treasure-keeper (Schatzhauser) no doubt lives,” and pulling off
his large hat, he made a low bow before the tree, cleared his throat,
and said, with a trembling voice, “I wish you a good evening, Mr.
Glass-mannikin.”  But receiving no answer, and all around remaining
silent as before, he thought it would probably be better to say the
verse, and therefore murmured it forth.  On repeating the words, he
saw, to his great astonishment, a singular and very small figure peep
forth from behind the tree.  It seemed to him as if he had beheld the
glass-mannikin, just as he was described, the little black jacket, red
stockings, hat, all even to the pale, but fine shrewd countenance of
which the people so much talked, he thought he had seen.  But alas, as
quickly as it had peeped forth, as quickly it had disappeared again.
“Mr. Glass-mannikin,” cried Peter Munk, after a short hesitation, “pray
don’t make a fool of me; if you fancy that I have not seen you, you are
vastly mistaken, I saw you very well peeping forth from behind the
tree.”  Still no answer, only at times he fancied he heard a low,
hoarse tittering behind the tree.  At length his impatience conquered
this fear, which had still restrained him, and he cried, “Wait, you
little rascal, I will have you yet.”  At the same time he jumped behind
the tree, but there was no Schatzhauser, and only a pretty little
squirrel was running up the tree.

Peter Munk shook his head; he saw he had succeeded to a certain degree
in the incantation, and that he perhaps only wanted one more rhyme to
the verse to evoke the glass-mannikin; he tried over and over again,
but could not think of any thing.  The squirrel showed itself on the
lowest branches of the tree, and seemed to encourage or perhaps to mock
him.  It trimmed itself, it rolled its pretty tail, and looked at him
with its cunning eyes.  At length he was almost afraid of being alone
with this animal; for sometimes it seemed to have a man’s head, and to
wear a three cornered hat, sometimes to be quite like another squirrel,
with the exception only of having red stockings and black shoes on its
hind feet.  In short it was a merry little creature, but still Peter
felt an awe, fancying that all was not right.

Peter now went away with more rapid strides than he had come.  The
darkness of the forest seemed to become blacker and blacker; the trees
stood closer to each other, and he began to be so terrified that he ran
off in a trot, and only became more tranquil when he heard dogs bark at
a distance, and soon after descried the smoke of a hut through the
trees.  But on coming nearer and seeing the dress of the people, he
found that having taken the contrary direction he had got to the
raftsmen instead of the glass-makers.  The people living in the hut
were wood-cutters, consisting of an aged man with his son who was the
owner, and some grown up grand-children.  They received Peter Munk, who
begged a night’s quarter, hospitably enough without asking his name or
residence, they gave him cider to drink, and in the evening a large
black cock, the best meal in the Schwarzwald, was served up for supper.

After this meal the housewife and her daughters took their distaffs and
sat round a large pine torch, which the boys fed with the finest rosin;
the host with his guest sat smoking and looking at the women; while the
boys were busy carving wooden spoons and forks.  The storm was howling
and raging through the pines in the forest without, and now and then
very heavy blasts were heard, and it was as if whole trees were
breaking off and crashing down.  The fearless youths were about to run
out to witness this terrific and beautiful spectacle, but their
grandfather kept them back with a stern look and these words: “I would
not advise any of you,” cried he, “to go now outside the door; by
heavens he never would return, for Michel the Dutchman is building this
night a new raft in the forest.”

The younger of them looked at him with astonishment, having probably
heard before of Michel, but they now begged their grandpapa to tell
them some interesting story of him.  Peter Munk who had heard but
confused stories of Michel the Dutchman on the other side of the
forest, joined in this request, asking the old man who and where he
was.  “He is the lord of the forest,” was the answer, “and from your
not having heard this at your age, it follows that you must be a native
of those parts just beyond the Tannenbühl or perhaps still more
distant.  But I will tell you all I know, and how the story goes about
him.  A hundred years ago or thereabouts, there were far and wide no
people more upright in their dealings than the Schwarzwälder, at least
so my grandfather used to tell me.  Now, since there is so much money
in the country, the people are dishonest and bad.  The young fellows
dance and riot on Sundays, and swear to such a degree that it is
horrible to hear them; whereas formerly it was quite different, and I
have often said and now say, though he should look in through the
window, that the Dutchman Michel is the cause of all this depravity.  A
hundred years ago then there lived a very rich timber merchant who had
many servants; he carried his trade far down the Rhine and was very
prosperous, being a pious man.  One evening a person such as he had
never seen came to his door; his dress was like that of the young
fellows of the Schwarzwald, but he was full a head taller than any of
them, and no one had ever thought there could be such a giant.  He
asked for work, and the timber-merchant, seeing he was strong, and able
to carry great weights, agreed with him about the wages and took him
into his service.  He found Michel to be a labourer such as he had
never yet had; for in felling trees he was equal to three ordinary men,
and when six men were pulling at one end of a trunk he would carry the
other end alone.  After having been employed in felling timber for six
months, he came one day before his master, saying, ‘I have now been
cutting wood long enough here, and should like to see what becomes of
my trunks; what say you to letting me go with the rafts for once?’  To
which his master replied, ‘I have no objection, Michel, to your seeing
a little of the world; to be sure I want strong men like yourself to
fell the timber, and on the river all depends upon skill; but,
nevertheless, be it for this time as you wish.’

“Now the float with which Michel was to go, consisted of eight rafts,
and in the last there were some of the largest beams.  But what then?
The evening before starting, the tall Michel brought eight beams to the
water, thicker and longer than had ever been seen, and he carried every
one of them as easily upon his shoulder as if it had been a rowing
pole, so that all were amazed.  Where he had felled them, no one knows
to this day.  The heart of the timber-merchant was leaping with joy
when he saw this, calculating what these beams would fetch; but Michel
said, ‘Well, these are for my travelling on, with those chips I should
not be able to get on at all.’  His master was going to make him a
present of a pair of boots, but throwing them aside, Michel brought out
a pair the largest that had ever been seen, and my grandfather assured
me they weighed a hundred pounds and were five feet long.

“The float started; and if Michel had before astonished the
wood-cutters, he perfectly astonished the raftsmen; for his raft,
instead of drifting slowly down the river as they thought it would, by
reason of the immense beams, darted on like an arrow, as soon as they
came into the Neckar.  If the river took a turn, or if they came to any
part where they had a difficulty in keeping the middle stream or were
in danger of running aground, Michel always jumped into the water,
pushing his float either to the right or to the left, so that he glided
past without danger.  If they came to a part where the river ran
straight, Michel often sprang to the foremost raft, and making all put
up their poles, fixed his own enormous pole in the sand, and by one
push made the float dart along, so that it seemed as if the land,
trees, and villages were flying by them.  Thus they came in half the
time they generally occupied to Cologne on the Rhine, where they
formerly used to sell their timber.  Here Michel said, ‘You are but
sorry merchants and know nothing of your advantage.  Think you these
Colognese want all the timber from the Schwarzwald for themselves?  I
tell you no, they buy it of you for half its value, and sell it dear to
Holland.  Let us sell our small beams here, and go to Holland with the
large ones; what we get above the ordinary price is our own profit.’

“Thus spoke the subtle Michel, and the others consented; some because
they liked to go and see Holland, some for the sake of the money.  Only
one man was honest, and endeavoured to dissuade them from putting the
property of their master in jeopardy or cheating him out of the higher
price.  However they did not listen to him and forgot his words, while
Michel forgot them not.  So they went down the Rhine with the timber,
and Michel, guiding the float soon brought them to Rotterdam.  Here
they were offered four times as much as at Cologne, and particularly
the large beams of Michel fetched a very high sum.  When the
Schwarzwälders beheld the money, they were almost beside themselves
with joy.  Michel divided the money, putting aside one-fourth for their
master, and distributing the other three among the men.  And now they
went into the public houses with sailors and other rabble, squandering
their money in drinking and gambling; while the honest fellow who had
dissuaded th

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